Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XIX. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS.

Tunc respiciens senescallus vadit ad Herodem dicens,

Senescallus. Lord, I have walkyd be dale and hylle,

And wayted, as it is ȝour wylle;

The kynges iij. stelyn awey fulle stylle,

Thorwe Bedleem londe.

They wyl nevyr, so mot y the,

Come in the lond of Galylé,

ffor to se ȝour fay ceté,

Ne dedys of ȝour honde.

Herodes Rex. I ryde on my rowel ryche in my regne,

Rybbys fful reed with rape xal I sende;

Popetys et paphawkes I xal puttyn in peyne,

With my spere prevyn, pychyn, and to-pende.

The gowys with gold crownys gete thei nevyr ageyn,

To seke tho sottys sondys xal I sende;

Do howlott howtyn hoberd and heyn,

Whan here barnys blede undyr credyl bende;

Sharply I xal hem shende!

The knave childeryn that be

In alle Israel countré,

Thei xul have blody ble,

ffor on I calde unkende.

It is tolde in Grw,

His name xulde be Jhesu

I-fownde.

To have hym ȝe gon,

Hewe the flesche with the bon,

And gyff hym wownde!

Now kene knyghtes, kythe ȝour craftys,

And kyllyth knave chylderyn and castyth hem in clay;

Shewyth on ȝour shulderes scheldys and schaftys,

Shapyht amonge schel chowthys ashyrlyng shray;

Doth rowncys rennyn with rakynge raftys,

Tyl rybbys be to rent with a reed ray;

Lete no barne beleve on bete baftys,

Tyl a beggere blede be bestys baye

Mahound that best may;

I warne ȝow my knyghtes,

A barn is born I plyghtys,

Wolde clymbyn kynge and kyknytes,

And lett my lordly lay.

Knyghtys wyse,

Chosyn ful chyse,

Aryse! aryse!

And take ȝour tolle!

And every page

Of ij. ȝere age,

Or evyr ȝe swage,

Sleythe ilke a fool.

On of hem alle

Was born in stalle,

ffolys hym calle

Kynge in crowne.

With byttyr galle,

He xalle down falle,—

My myght in halle

Xal nevyr go down.

Primus miles. I xall sle scharlys,

And qwenys with therlys,

Here knave gerlys,

I xal steke.

fforthe wyl I spede,

To don hem blede,

Thow gerlys grede,

We xul be wreke.

Secundus miles. ffor swerdys sharpe,

As an harpe,

Quenys xul karpe,

And of sorwe synge.

Barnys ȝonge,

They xul be stunge,—

Thurwe levyr and lunge

We xal hem stynge.

Angelus. Awake, Joseph, and take thi wyff,

Thy childe also ryd be-lyff!

ffor kynge Herowde, with sharpe knyff

His knyghtes he doth sende.

The Fadyr of hevyn hath to the sent,

Into Egypte that thou be bent,

ffor cruel knyghtes thi childe have ment

With swerd to sle and shende.

Joseph. Awake, good wyff, out of ȝour sleepe,

And of ȝour childe takyght good kepe,

Whyl I ȝour clothis ley on hepe,

And trus hem on the asse.

Kynge Herowde the chylde wyl scloo,

Therfore to Egypte muste we goo,

An aungel of God seyd me soo,

And therfore lete us passe.

Tunc ibunt milites ad pueros occidendos, et dicat prima fæmina,

Prima fæmina. Longe lullynge have I lorn!

Alas! qwhy was my baron born?

With swappynge swerde now is he shorn

The heed ryght fro the nekke!

Shanke and shulderyn is al to-torn,

Sorwyn I se behyndyn and beforn,

Both mydnyth, mydday, and at morn,—

Of my lyff I ne recke.

Secunda fæmina. Serteynly I say the same,

Gon is alle my good game,

My lytylle childe lyth alle lame,

That lullyd on my pappys!

My ffourty wekys gronynge

Hath sent me sefne ȝere sorwynge,

Mykyl is my mornynge,

And ryght hard arne myn happys!

Primus miles. Lorde in trone

Makyght no mone,

Qwenys gyn grone

In werld aboute.

Upon my spere

A gerle I bere,

I dare welle swere,

Lett moderes howte.

Secundus miles. Lord, we han spad,

As ȝe bad;

Barnis ben blad,

And lyne in dyche.

fflesche and veyn

Han tholyd peyn,

And ȝe xul reyne

Evermore ryche.

Herodes Rex. ȝe xul have stedys

To ȝour medys,

Londys and ledys,

ffryth and ffe.

Wele have ȝe wrought,

My ffo is sought,

To deth is he brought,—

Now come up to me.

In sete now am I sett, as kynge of myghtys most,

Alle this werd ffor ther love to me xul thei lowt;

Bothe of hevyn, and of erthe, and of helle cost,

ffor dygne of my dygnyté thei have of me dowt.

Ther is no lord lyke on lyve to me wurthe a toost,

Nether kyng nor kayser in alle this world abought;

If any brybour do bragge or blowe aȝens my bost,

I xal rappe tho rebawdys and rake them on rought,

With my bryght bronde.

Ther xal be neyther kayser nere kynge,

But that I xal hem down dynge,

Lesse than he at my byddynge

Be buxum to myn honde.

Now, my jentylle and curteys knyghtes, herke to me this stownde,

Good tyme sone me thynkyghe at dyner that we were;

Smertly therfore sett a tabylle anon here fful sownde,

Coverid with a coryous clothe and with ryche wurthy fare;

Servyse ffor the lovelyest lorde that levynge is on grownde,

Beste metes, and wurthyest wynes, loke that ȝe non spare;

Thow that a lytyl pynt xulde coste a mˡ. pownde,

Brynge alwey of the beste, for coste take ȝe no care,—

Anon that it be done.

Senescallus. My lorde, the tabyl is redy dyght;

Here is watyr, now wasche forth ryght!

Now blowe up mynstralle with alle ȝour myght!

The servyse comyth in sone.

Herodes. Now am I sett at mete,

And wurthely servyd at my degré;

Com forthe knyghtes, sytt down and ete,

And be as mery as ȝe kan be.

Primus Miles. Lord, at ȝowre byddynge we take oure sete,

With herty wyl obey we the;

Ther is no lord of myght so grett,

Thorwe alle this werde in no countré,

In wurchepp to abyde!

Herodes. I was nevyr meryer here beforn,

Suthe that I was fyrst born,

Than I am now ryght in this morn,—

In joy I gynne to glyde.

Mors. Ow! I herde a page make preysyng of pride,

Alle prynces he passyth, he wenyth, of powsté;

He wenyth to be the wurthyest of alle this werde wyde,—

Kynge ovyr alle kynges that page wenyth to be.

He sent into Bedlem, to seke on every syde,

Cryst for to qwelle, yf thei myght hym se;

But of his wykkyd wyl lurdeyn ȝitt he lyede,

Goddys sone doth lyve,—ther is no Lord but he!

Over alle lordys he is kynge!

I am Dethe, Goddys masangere!

Allemyghty God hath sent me here,

ȝon lordeyn to sle, withowtyn dwere,

ffor his wykkyd workynge.

I am sent fro God, Deth is my name!

Alle thynge that is on grownd I welde at my wylle;

Bothe man and beste, and byrdys, wylde and tame,

Whan that I come them to, with deth I do them kylle.

Erbe, gres, and tres stronge, take hem alle in same;

ȝa, the grete myghty okys with my dent I spylle;

What man that I wrastele with, he xal ryght sone have schame, —

I ȝeve him suche a trepett, he xal evyr more ly stylle,

ffor deth kan no sporte.

Wher I smyte, ther is no grace,

ffor aftere my strook man hath no space

To make amendys ffor his trespace,

But God hym graunt comforte.

Ow! se how prowdely ȝon kaytyff sytt at mete!

Of deth hath he no dowte, he wenyth to leve evyrmore;

To hym wyl I go, and ȝeve hym suche an hete,

That alle the lechis of the londe his lyf xul nevyr restore:

Aȝens my dredful dentys it vaylyth nevyr to plete,

Or I hym part fro I xal hym make ful pore;

Alle the blood of his body I xal hym owt swete,

ffor now I go to sle hym with strokys sad and sore,

This tyde.

Bothe hym and his knyghtes alle,

I xal hem make to me but thralle,

With my spere sle him I xalle,

And so cast down his pride.

Herodes Rex. Now, kende knyghtes, be mery and glad!

With alle good diligens shewe now sum myrthe!

ffor, be gracyous Mahound, more myrthe never I had,

Ne nevyr more joye was inne from tyme to tyme of my byrthe;

ffor now my fo is ded and prendyd as a padde,

Above me is no kynge on grownd nere on gerthe!

Merthis therfore make ȝe, and be ryght nothynge sadde;

Spare nether mete nor drynke, and spare for no dyrthe

Of wyne nor of brede.

ffor now am I a kynge alone,

So wurthy as I may ther be none,

Therfore knyghtes be mery echone,

ffor now my ffo is dede!

Primus Miles. Whan the boys sprawlyd at my sperys hende,

By Sathanas, oure syre, it was a goodly syght!

A good game it was the boy for to shende,

That wolde a bene oure kynge and put ȝow from ȝour ryght.

Secundus Miles. Now trewly, my lorde the kynge, we had ben unkende,

And nevyr non of us able for to be a knyght;

If that any of us to hem had ben a frende,

And a savyd any lyff aȝen thi mekyl myght, —

ffrom deth hem to flytt.

Herodes Rex. Amonges alle that grett rowthte

He is ded, I have no dowte,

Therfore, menstrelle, rownd abowte

Blowe up a mery fytt.

Hic dum buccinant mors interficiat Herodem et duos milites subito, et diabolus recipiat eos,

Diabolus. Alle oure! alle oure! this catel is myn!

I xalle hem brynge onto my celle!

I xal hem teche pleys fyn,

And shewe suche myrthe as is in helle!

It were more bettyr amonges swyne,

That evyr more stynkyn ther be to dwelle;

ffor in oure logge is so gret peyn,

That non erthely tonge can telle:

With ȝow I go my way.

I xal ȝow here forthe with me,

And shewe ȝow sportes of oure gle,

Of oure myrthis now ȝal ȝe se,

And evyr synge “welaway.”

Mors. Off kynge Herowde alle men beware,

That hath rejoycyd in pompe and pryde;

ffor alle his boste of blysse ful bare,

He lythe now ded here on his syde!

ffor whan I come, I cannot spare,

Fro me no whyht may hym hyde;

Now is he ded and cast in care,

In helle pytt evyr to abyde;

His lordchep is al lorn.

Now is he as pore as I,

Wormys mete is his body,

His sowle in helle ful peynfully

Of develis is al to-torn.

Alle men dwellyng upon the grownde,

Beware of me, be myn councel;

ffor feynt felachep in me is fownde, —

I kan no curtesy, as I ȝow tel;

ffor be a man nevyr so sownde,

Of helthe in herte nevyr so wel,

I come sodeynly within a stownde, —

Me withstande may no castel,

My jurnay wyl I spede.

Of my comyng no man is ware,

ffor whan men make most mery fare,

Than sodeynly I cast hem in care,

And sle them evyn indede.

Thow I be nakyd and pore of array,

And wurmys knawe me all abowte,

ȝit loke ȝe drede me nyth and day,

ffor whan deth comyth, ȝe stande in dowte;

Evyn lyke to me, as I ȝow say,

Shulle alle ȝe be here in this rowte;

Whan I ȝow chalange at my day,

I xal ȝow make ryght lowe to lowth,

And nakyd for to be.

Amonges wormys, as I ȝow telle,

Undyr the erthe xul ȝe dwelle,

And thei xul etyn bothe flesche and felle,

As thei have don me.