“O horrydde dede toe kylle a manne forre a pygges hede.”—Inscription.
Quahat want ye, quahat want ye thoue jollie fryare,
Sayde Syr Delavalles Wardoure brave;
Quahat lack ye, quahat lack ye, thoue jollie fryare;—
———Saythe—Openne ye portalle, knave,
Three wearye legues fro ye Pryorye
Ive com synne ye sonne hathe smylde onne ye sea.
Nowe naye, nowe naye, thoue halie fryare,
I maie notte lett ye ynne;
Syr Delavalles moode ys notte forre ye Roode,
Ande hee cares nott toe shryve hys synne;
And schoulde hee retorne quithe hys hoonde and horne,
Hee will gare thye haliness rynne.
Forre Chryste hys sak nowe saie nott naie,
Botte openne ye portalle toe mee;
Ande I wylle donne a ryche benyzonne
Forre thye gentlesse ande cortesye:—
Bye Masse ande bye Roode gyffe thys boone ys quithstoode,
Thoue shalte perryshe bye sorcerie.
Y’enne quycklie ye portalle wals opennd wyde,
Syr Delavalles hal wals made free,
Ande ye table wals spredde forre ye fryare quithe spede,
Ande he fesstedde ryghte plentyfullie:
Dydde a fryare wyghte everre lack off myghte
Quhenne hee token chepe hostelrye?
Ande ye fryare hee ate, ande ye fryare hee dronke,
Tylle ye cellarmonne wonderred fulle sore;
And hee wysh’d hymm atte home att Saynte Oswynnes tombe,[177]
Quithe hys relyckes ande myssall lore:
Botte ye fryare hee ate offe ye vensonne mete,
Ande ye fryare hee dronke ye more.
Nowe thys daie wals a daie off wassell keppt,
Syr Delavalles byrthe daie I weene,
And monnie a knycghte ande ladye bryghte,
Ynne Syr Delavalles castell wals seene;
Botte synne ye sunne onne ye blue sea schonne.
They’d huntedd ye woodes sae greene.
And ryche and rare wals ye feste prepardde
Forre ye knycghtes ande ladyes gaie;
Ande ye fyelde ande ye floode baythe yyeldedd yere broode
Toe grace ye festalle daie;
And ye wynnes fro Espagne wyche longe hadde layne,
And spyces fro farre Cathaye.
Botte fyrst ande fayrest offe al ye feste,
Bye Syr Delavalle pryzd moste dere,
A fatte boare rostedde ynn seemlye gyze,
Toe grace hys lordlye chere:
Ye reke fro ye fyre sore hongerdde ye fryare,
Ynne spyte of refectynge gere.
Ande thuss thoughte ye fryare als he sate,
Y’sse Boare ys ryghte savourie;
I wot tys noe synn ytts hede toe wynne,
Gyffe I mote ryghte cunnynglie;
Ysse goddelesse knycghte ys ane churche hatynge wyghte,
Toe fylche hymme ne knaverie.