Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XV. THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.

Joseph. Lord, what travayl to man is wrought!

Rest in this werd behovyth hym non;

Octavyan oure emperor sadly hath besought

Oure trybute hym to bere, ffolk must forth ichon,

It is cryed in every bourgh and cety be name;

I that am a pore tymbre wryth, born of the blood of Davyd,

The emperores comawndement I must holde with,

And ellys I were to blame.

Now, my wyff Mary, what sey ȝe to this?

For sekyr, nedys I must fforth wende

Onto the cyté of Bedleem, ffer hens i-wys;—

Thus to labore I must my body bende.

Maria. Myn husbond and my spowse, with ȝow wyl I wende,

A syght of that cyté ffayn wolde I se;

If I myght of myn alye ony ther ffynde,

It wold be grett joye onto me.

Joseph. My spowse, ȝe be with childe, I fere ȝow to kary,

ffor me semyth it were werkys wylde;

But ȝow to plese ryght ffayn wold I,

ȝitt women benethe to greve whan thei be with childe.

Now latt us fforth wende as ffast as we may,

And almyghty God spede us in oure jurnay!

Maria. A! my swete husbond, wolde ȝe telle to me,

What tre is ȝon standynge upon ȝon hylle?

Josephe. fforsothe, Mary, it is clepyd a chery tre;

In tyme of ȝere ȝe myght ffede ȝow theron ȝour ffylle.

Maria. Turne ageyn, husbond, and behold ȝon tre,

How that it blomyght now so swetly.

Joseph. Cum on, Mary, that we worn at ȝon cyté;

Or ellys we may be blamyd, I telle ȝow lythly.

Maria. Now, my spowse, I pray ȝow to behold,

How the cheryes growyn upon ȝon tre;

ffor to have therof ryght ffayn I wold,

And it plesyd ȝow to labore so meche for me.

Joseph. ȝour desyre to ffulfylle I xal assay sekyrly,

Ow to plucke ȝow of these cheries; it is a werk wylde,

ffor the tre is so hyȝ it wol not be lyghtly,

Therfore lete hym pluk ȝow cheryes begatt ȝow with childe.

Maria. Now, good Lord, I pray the graunt me this boun,

To have of these cheries, and it be ȝour wylle:

Now, I thank it God, this tre bowyth to me downe!

I may now gaderyn anowe, and etyn my ffylle.

Josephe. Ow, I know weyl I have offendyd my God in Trinyté,

Spekyng to my spowse these unkynde wurdys;

ffor now I beleve wel it may non other be,

But that my spowse beryght the kyngys son of blys;

He help us now at oure nede!

Of the kynrede of Jesse worthely were ȝe bore,

Kynges and patryarkys ȝow beffore,

Alle these wurthy of ȝour kynred wore,

As clerkys in story rede.

Maria. Now, gramercy, husbond, for ȝour report!

In oure weys wysely late us forth wende;

The fadyr allemyghty he be oure comfort!

The Holy Gost gloryous he be oure frende!

Joseph. Heyl, wurchepful sere, and good day!

A ceteceyn of this cyté ȝe seme to be;

Of herborwe ffor spowse and me I ȝow pray,

ffor trewly this woman is fful weré,

And fayn at reste, sere, wold she be;

We wolde ffulffylle the byddynge of oure emperoure,

ffor to pay trybute, as ryght is oure,

And to kepe oureselfe ffrom dolowre,

We are come to this cyté.

Cives. Sere, ostage in this towne know I non,

Thin wyff and thou in for to slepe;

This ceté is besett with pepyl every won,

And ȝett thei ly withowte fful every strete.

Withinne no walle, man, comyst thou nowth,

Be thou onys withinne the cyté gate;

On ethys in the strete a place may be sowth,

Theron to reste, withowte debate.

Joseph. Nay, sere, debate that wyl I nowth;

Alle suche thyngys passyn my powere:

But ȝitt my care and alle my thought

Is for Mary, my derlynge dere.

A! swete wyff, what xal we do?

Wher xal we logge this nyght?

Onto the ffadyr of heffne pray we so,

Us to kepe ffrom every wykkyd whyt.

Cives. Good man, o word I wyl the sey,

If thou wylt do by the counsel of me;

ȝondyr is an hous of haras that stant be the wey,

Amonge the bestys herboryd may ȝe be.

Maria. Now the fadyr of hefne he mut ȝow ȝelde!

His sone in my wombe forsothe he is;

He kepe the and thi good be fryth and ffelde!

Go we hens, husbond, for now tyme it is.

But herk now, good husbond, a newe relacyon,

Whiche in myself I know ryght welle;

Cryst in me hath take incarnacion,

Sone wele be borne, the trowthe I fele.

In this pore logge my chawmere I take,

Here for to abyde the blyssyd byrthe

Of hym that alle this werd dude make,—

Betwyn myn sydes I fele he styrthe.

Joseph. God be thin help, spowse, it swemyth me sore,

Thus febyly loggyd and in so pore degré,

Goddys sone amonge bestys ffor to be bore;

His woundyr werkys ffulfyllyd must be!

In an hous that is desolat, withowty any walle,

ffyer nor wood non here is.

Maria. Joseph, myn husbond, abydyn here I xal,

ffor here wyl be born the kynges sone of blys!

Joseph. Now, jentyll wyff, be of good myrthe,

And if ȝe wyl owght have, telle me what ȝe thynk;

I xal not spare for schep nor derthe,—

Now telle me ȝour lust of mete and drynk.

Maria. ffor mete and drynk lust I ryght nowth,

Allemyghty God my fode xal be!

Now that I am in chawmere brought,

I hope ryght welle my chylde to se.

Therfore husbond, of ȝour honesté,

Avoyd ȝow hens out of this place;

And I alone, with humylité,

Here xal abyde Goddys hyȝ grace.

Joseph. Alleredy, wyff, ȝow for to plese

I wyl go hens out of ȝour way;

And seke sum mydwyvys ȝow for to ese,

Whan that ȝe travayle of childe this day.

ffarewelle, trewe wyff, and also clene may,

God be ȝour comforte in Trinyté!

Maria. To God in hevyn for ȝow I pray,

He ȝow preserve wherso ȝe be!

Hic dum Joseph est absens parit Maria filium unigenitum.

Joseph. Now God, of whom comythe the alle releffe,

And as alle grace in the is grownde,

So save my wyff from hurt and greffe,

Tyl I sum mydwyvys for here have fownde!

Travelynge women in care be bownde,

With grete throwys whan thei do grone;

God, helpe my wyff that sche not swownde!

I am ful sory sche is alone.

It is not convenient a man to be

Ther women gon in travalynge;

Wherfore sum mydwyff ffayn wold I se,

My wyff to helpe that is so ȝenge.

ȝelomy. Why makyst thou man suche mornyng?

Telle me sumdele of ȝour gret mone.

Joseph. My wyf is now in gret longynge,

Travelyng of chylde, and is alone:

ffor Godys love that sytt in trone,

As ȝe, mydwyvys, that kan ȝour good,

Help my ȝonge spowse in hast anone,—

I drede me sore of that fayr food.

Salome. Be of good chere and of glad mood,

We ij. mydwyvys with the wylle go;

Ther was nevyr woman in suche plyght stood,

But we were redy here help to do.

My name is Salomee, alle men me knowe

ffor a mydwyff of wurthy fame;

Whan women travayl, grace doth growe,

Ther as I come I had nevyr shame.

ȝelomye. And I am ȝelomye, men knowe my name;

We tweyn with the wyl go togedyr,

And help thi wyff fro hurt and grame;

Come forthe, Joseph, go we streythe thedyr.

Joseph. I thank ȝow, damys, ȝe comforte my lyff,

Streyte to my spowse walke we the way.

In this pore logge lyght Mary my wyff;

Hyre for to comforte, gode frendys, asay.

Salome. We dare not entre this logge in fay,

Ther is therin so gret bryghtnes,—

Mone be nyght nor sunne be day

Shone nevyr so clere in ther lyghtnesse.

ȝelomye. Into this hous dare I not gon,

The woundyrffulle lyght doth me affray.

Joseph. Than wyl myself gon in alon,

And chere my wyff, if that I may;

Alle heyl, maydon and wyff, I say!

How dost thou fare? telle me thi chere!

The for to comforte in gesyne this day,

Tweyn gode mydwyvis I have brought here.

The for to helpe that art in harde bonde,

ȝelomye and Salomee be come with me,—

ffor dowte of drede withowte thei do stond,

And dare not come in for lyght that they se.

Hic Maria subridendo dicat, Maria.

Maria. The myght of the Godhede in his magesté

Wyl not be hyd now at this whyle;

The chylde that is born wyl preve his modyr fre,

A very clene mayde, and therfore I smyle.

Joseph. Why do ȝe lawghe, wyff? ȝe be to blame;

I pray ȝow, spowse, do no more so;

In happ the mydwyvys wyl take it to grame,

And at ȝour nede helpe wele non do.

Iff ȝe have nede of mydwyvys, lo!

Peraventure thei wyl gon hens:

Therfor be sad and ȝe may so,

And wynnyth alle the mydwyvis good diligens.

Maria. Husbond, I pray ȝow dysplese ȝow nowth,

Thow that I lawghe and gret joye have;

Here is the chylde this werde hath wrought,

Born now of me, that alle thynge xal save.

Joseph. I aske ȝow grace, for I dyde rave!

O gracyous childe, I aske mercy!

As thou art Lord and I but knave,

fforȝeve me now my gret foly!

Alas! mydwyvis, what have I seyd?

I pray ȝow come to us more nere;

ffor here I fynde my wyff a mayd,

And in here arme a chylde hath here.

Bothe mayd and modyr sche is in ffere,

That God wole have may nevyr more fayle;

Modyr on erthe was nevyr non cler,

Withowth sche had in byrthe travayle.

ȝelomy. In byrth travayle muste sche nedys have,

Or ellys no chylde of here is born.

Joseph. I pray ȝow, dame, and ȝe vowchesave,

Com se the chylde my wyff beforn.

Salome. Grete God be in this place!

Swete systyr, how fare ȝe?

Maria. I thank the fadyr of his hyȝ grace,

His owyn son and my chylde here ȝe may se.

ȝelomye. Alle heyl, Mary, and ryght good morn!

Who was mydwyfe of this ffayr chylde?

Maria. He that nothynge wyl have forlorne

Sent me this babe, and I mayde mylde.

ȝelomye. With honde lete me now towche and fele,

Yf ȝe have nede of medycyne;

I xal ȝow comforte and helpe ryght wele,

As other women, yf ȝe have pyne.

Maria. Of this fayr byrthe that here is myn,

Peyne nere grevynge fele I ryght non!

I am clene mayde and pure virgyn,

Tast with ȝour hand ȝourself alon.

Hic palpat ȝelomye beatam virginem, dicens,

ȝelomy. O myghtfulle God, have mercy on me!

A merveyle that nevyr was herd beforn!

Here opynly I fele and se

A fayr chylde of a maydon is borne,

And nedyth no waschynge, as other don,—

fful clene and pure forsothe is he;

Withoutyn spott or ony polucyon,

His modyr nott hurte of virgynité!

Coom nere, gode systyr Salome,

Beholde the brestys of this clene mayd,

fful of fayr mylke how that thei be,

And hyre chylde clene, as I fyrst sayd;

As other ben nowth fowle arayd,

But clene and pure, bothe modyr and chylde;

Of this matyr I am dysmayd

To se them bothe thus undefyled.

Salome. It is not trewe; it may nevyr be

That both be clene, I cannot beleve:

A maydes milke never man dyde se,

Ne woman here chylde withowte grett greve.

I xal nevyr trowe it, but I it preve,

With hand towchynge but I assay;

In my conscience it may nevyr cleve,

The sche hath chylde and is a may.

Maria. ȝow for to putt clene out of dowth,

Towche with ȝour hand and wele asay:

Wysely ransake and trye the trewthe owth,

Whethyr I be fowlyd, or a clene may.

Hic tangit Salomee Mariæ, et cum arescerit manus ejus ulverando, et, quasi flendo, dicit,

Salomee. Alas! alas! and weleawaye!

ffor my grett dowth and fals beleve,

Myne hand is ded and drye as claye!

My fals untrost hath wrought myscheve!

Alas! the tyme that I was born,

Thus to offende aȝens Goddys myght!

Myn handys power is now alle lorn,

Styff as a stykke and may nowth plyght.

ffor I dede tempte this mayde so bryght,

And helde aȝens here pure clennes,

In grett myscheff now am I pyght:

Alas! alas! ffor my lewdnes.

O lord of myght! thou knowyst the trowthe,

That I have evyr had dred of the;

On every power wryght evyr I have rowthe,

And ȝove hem almes for love of the.

Bothe wyff and wedowe that askyght for the,

And frendles chylderyn that haddyn grett nede,

I dude them cure and alle for the,

And toke no rewarde of them nor mede.

Now as a wrecche ffor fals beleve,

That I shewyd in temptynge this mayde,

My hand is ded and doth me greve!

Alas! that evyr I here assyde.

Angelus. Woman, thi sorwe to have delayde,

Wurchep that childe that ther is born:

Towche the clothis ther he is layde,

ffor he xal save alle that is lorn!

Salomee. O gloryous chylde, and kynge of blysse!

I aske ȝow mercy for my trespace;

I knowlege my synne, I demyd amys;

O blyssyd babe, grawnt me sum grace!

Of ȝow, mayde, also here in this place,

I aske mercy, knelynge on kne;

Moste holy mayde, grawnt me solace,

Sum wurde of comforte sey now to me.

Maria. As Goddys aungel to ȝow dede telle,

My chylde is medecyn ffor every sor;

Towche his clothis be my cowncelle,—

ȝowre hand ful sone he wyl restor.

Hic Salomee tangit fimbriam Christi, dicens,

Salomee. A! now blyssyd be this chylde evermore—

The sone of God forsothe he is!

Hath helyd myn hand, that was forlore

Thorwe ffals beleve and demynge amys.

In every place I xal telle this,

Of a clene mayde that God is born:

And in oure lyknes God now clad is,

Mankend to save that was forlorn.

His modyr a mayde as sche was beforne,

Natt fowle pollutyd, as other women be;

But fayr and fresche, as rose on thorn,

Lely wyte clene with pure virginyté.

Of this blyssyd babe my leve now do I take,

And also of ȝow, hyȝ modyr of blysse!

Of this grett meracle more knowlege to make,

I xal go telle it in iche place i-wys.

Maria. ffarewel, good dame, and God ȝour wey wysse,

In all ȝour jurnay God be ȝourspede;

And of his hyȝ mercy that Lord so ȝow blysse,

That ȝe nevyr offende more in word, thought, nor dede.

ȝelomy. And I also do take my leve here,

Of alle this blyssyd good company;

Praynge ȝour grace, bothe fere and nere;

On us to spede ȝour endles mercy.

Joseph. The blyssyng of that Lord that is most myghty,

Mote sprede on ȝow in every place,

Of alle ȝour enmyes to have the victory,

God that best may grawnt ȝow his grace! Amen.