FIFTEENTH CENTURY
PROSE AND VERSE

AN ENGLISH GARNER

FIFTEENTH CENTURY
PROSE AND VERSE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

ALFRED W. POLLARD

WESTMINSTER
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO., LTD.
1903

Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. Constable.

PREFACE

Of the contents of the present volume about a half now appears in the English Garner for the first time. Professor Arber (whose ready acquiescence in my meddlings I wish cordially to acknowledge) had gathered his good corn wherever he could find it without concerning himself with the claims of the different centuries; and his specimens of Lydgate and Hoccleve, Robin Hood Ballads, and trials for Lollardy, needed as much more added to them to make up a homogeneous volume in the arrangement now adopted. My additions consist of some Christmas Carols, a Miracle Play, a Morality, and a number of the interesting prologues and epilogues of William Caxton; also two extracts on the art of translation and the need for its exercise, and some depositions in a theatrical lawsuit. The extracts are of the end of the fourteenth century, but are germane to our period as heralding the numerous translations by which it was distinguished; the lawsuit is of the sixteenth century, but throws light on the transition from municipal to private enterprise in theatrical matters which had then been for some time in progress. As these pieces are included for their matter, not for their style, I hope they will not be considered intrusions in a volume essentially devoted to the fifteenth century, though the extracts on translation have led me in my Introduction to an excursus on the authorship of the Wycliffite translations of the Bible, which can only be excused on the pleas that Purvey and Trevisa both lived on into the fifteenth century, and that it was in the early years of that century that the Bibles were most in circulation.

In editing my texts I have availed myself of the help of the edition of the play of the Coventry Shearmen and Tailors in Professor Manly's Specimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama (Ginn, 1897), of Dr. Henri Logeman's Elckerlijk and Everyman (Librairie Clemm, Gand, 1892), of Professor Ewald Flügel's transcript of the Balliol College Carols published in the Festschrift presented to Professor Hildebrand in 1894, of the Caxton Prefaces printed in Blades's Life of Caxton, of Mr. Henry Plomer's transcript of the pleadings in Rastell v. Walton in vol. iv. of the Transactions of the Bibliographical Society, and of Forshall and Madden's Wyclif Bible. In Professor Arber's text of the Robin Hood Ballads I have ventured to make a few corrections by the light of the excellent edition (based on the work of Professor Child), printed by Professor Gummere in his Old English Ballads (Ginn, 1894). That of Hoccleve's Letter of Cupid, originally printed from Urry's text, has been revised with the aid of the collations published by Professor Skeat in his Chaucerian and Other Pieces. Professor Arber's other texts are reprinted substantially as they stood.

In accordance with the plan adopted throughout the English Garner, the extracts in this volume are given in modern spelling. I should have preferred myself to re-write them in the educated spelling of their own period, which would offer no obstacle of any kind to a modern reader. Not only, however, for the sake of uniformity, but because I am so convinced that this is the right method of dealing with badly spelt texts that I wish the experiment to be made for the first time by a better philologist than myself, I have fallen back on modern spelling. Whatever its disadvantages, they seem to me as nothing compared with the absurdity of preserving in texts printed for the second, third, and fourth time the vagaries of grossly ignorant scribes. In the play of the Shearmen holiness is spelt whollenes, merry myrre, voice woise, signification syngnefocacion, celestial seylesteall, and so on. These spellings are as demonstrably wrong as those of consepeet (concipiet) and Gloria in exselsis, with which the scribe favours us. It is ungracious to find fault with Professor Manly after appropriating some of his stage directions and his identifications of some French words, but I cannot think an editor is right in reprinting a text of which he is obliged to confess 'in general, the sound will be a better guide to the meaning than the spelling.' In any case I am sure that this is not the way to win new readers for our earlier literature.

As a matter of literary honesty, as well as for my own comfort, I may be permitted to state that this is the only volume of the new edition of the Garner for which I am responsible or can take credit. I have eaten at least one dinner intended for my friend Mr. A.F. Pollard; my wastepaper basket has received applications for subscriptions which prove his reputation for generosity; I have even received a cheque, which the fact that it is reckoned forgery under some circumstances for a man to sign his own name forbade my cashing; and I have recently been more congratulated as the author of his Henry VIII. than I have ever been on any book of my own. So far from being identical, I regret to say that we are not even related; but as we seem to be as much mistaken as the two Dromios, I hope that our appearance side by side in this new edition of the Garner may help to distinguish rather than further confound us.

ALFRED W. POLLARD.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

In the world of politics and statecraft a nation which has once begun to decline seldom, perhaps never, recovers itself. There are too many other dogs about for the bone which has once been relinquished to be resumed later on. It is luck, indeed, if there are any decent scraps to be found on the platter when it is revisited. In the world of literature and thought the dogs are better bred, showing each other new hunting-grounds, and by example and precept often helping to restore a famished comrade to sleekness and vigour. Political conditions may not be gainsaid. A nation which has once lost its ideals cannot again produce a fresh, strong, and manly literature. But the possibilities of literature remain immense, and we cannot foretell in what country it may not revive and win fresh triumphs. Hence it is that while the political fortunes of a nation seem to move mainly along the three straight lines of ascent, enjoyment, and fall, its literary fortunes express themselves, when we try to generalise, in a series of curves, alternate rises and declines, which may be repeated again and again. In English literature out of the unknown past rose the Anglo-Saxon lyric and epic, Deor's Complaint, Beowulf, and the poems of Cædmon and Cynewulf. From the death-like sleep of our language which followed the Norman Conquest rose the heights of thirteenth-century romance. From the dull poetic pedantries of the age which succeeded Chaucer rose the glittering pinnacles of Shakespeare and his fellows. From the coldness and shallowness of the eighteenth century rose the rich and varied tableland of whose occupants Burns was one of the first and Tennyson and Browning perhaps the last. No other literature has shown such recuperative power, a thought full of hope and consolation in these days, for those who can take pleasure in the anticipated joys of their great-grandchildren.

If this philosophising be thought dull, we have only repaid popular estimates in their own coin; for these sweeping generalisations, which condemn whole centuries as periods of depression, have been largely made for us by popular opinion, and like all generalisations, they have to be very considerably whittled down as soon as we descend to particulars. On a nearer view we find that the curves of literary progress have not been rolled smooth by any steamroller, but that the great chain of hills is connected by numberless ridges, some of which are already rising, long ere others have touched the plain. A pleasant book by an American professor (the History of Romanticism in the Eighteenth Century, by Henry A. Beers) has helped to draw attention to many of these rising ridges of romance in the century which most people connect only with the name of Pope; and I hope in these few pages to show that the fifteenth century, of which we are so contemptuous, was at least not all flat country.

For the poor esteem into which this period has fallen we must lay some of the blame at the door of the literary historians who have, until recent days, placed the English Mandeville nearly half a century too early, postponed the consideration of the dramatic productions till they reached the middle of the sixteenth century, when they gave a meagre summary of 'earlier attempts,' and chronicled the industry of translators, which had been in full swing ever since about 1380, as a special feature of the sixteenth century, helping thus to account for the great Elizabethan outburst of original work. No poor period of literature was ever more mercilessly or wantonly plundered to enrich its prosperous neighbours on either side; and having thus credited to other generations all its little claims to distinction, our literary historians fixed their glance sternly on the court poetry, which is its weakest feature, and made the case of Hoccleve and Lydgate more pitiful than it need be by cruelly comparing them with Chaucer. To be inconvenient to historians is not perhaps of itself a mark of greatness, but Chaucer's professed lovers may take pleasure in observing how largely he shares this characteristic with Shakespeare himself. To give each of them a separate chapter is but a respectful subterfuge, thinly concealing how unconscionably these two sudden elevations interfere with that orderly progression which the historian loves. It would be much easier to tell the story of the Elizabethan-Jacobean drama from rise to fall if Shakespeare could be left out of it; and if there had been no Chaucer, how gentle, how almost mathematical, would have been the progression from the Cursor Mundi and the Handlyng Synne to Gower's Confessio Amantis, from Gower to Lydgate and Hoccleve, and from Lydgate and Hoccleve to Stephen Hawes! The Italian influence would have come in for the first time with Surrey and Wyatt, and the whole sequence would have been just what a plain man would expect. Not only by his inconvenient possession of genius, but also by his great, if fitful industry, and by what we can hardly call by any name but good luck, Chaucer shoots up suddenly between Gower and his natural successors, and thus revolutionises the standard of poetry by which the next century is inevitably judged. The effect of his sudden uprising is almost as confusing to our judgments of his own poetry as of that of his unhappy 'successors.' Brought up, as most of us poor middle-aged critics have been, on textbooks which grudgingly devoted a scanty thirty or forty pages to all that happened ere Surrey and Wyatt began to write an English which literary historians could read without taking any trouble, we inevitably got it into our heads that with Chaucer we were at the very beginning; that he was really, as he was called, the Father of English Poetry, and represented the first blossoming of its spring. The spring had come and was fast fading when Chaucer began to write. It had come with the first blossoming of the romances, and with such lyrics as

'Lenten[1] is come with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdes rown';[2]
or as
'Blow, northern wind,
Send thou me my sweeting';

of which the lightness and spontaneity are represented in only a few snatches in Chaucer. Other touches of the spring he has, for no man better loved the merry month of May, and he has sung it until he has become for ever identified with it in our minds. All the same, he represents also a reaction which sees the humorous side of the lover's springtide longings, and views all things very much as they are, without illusion. Fortunately, in Chaucer's case this prosaic mood was raised and transfigured by the revelation of Italian poetry, which enabled him to give us in Troilus and Cressida, and the knight's tale of Palamon and Arcite, the most perfect harmony of humour and romance English narrative poetry has produced. No other poet of his time came under the same influences, and to this fact, as well as to his possession of genius, he owes his unique position.

That the worthy Lydgate and Hoccleve, without any of Chaucer's good luck, failed to tread in his footsteps, is thus hardly surprising. They took from him as much of his machinery as they could carry, wrote in his metres with the aid of ears sadly confused by the rapidly weakening pronunciation of final -e and -es, and began the attempt, pursued all through the century, to make up by magniloquence what they lacked in poetry. This attempt was not confined to England. In France also there was the same invasion of long words, and it took our fair neighbour much longer to get rid of them. As the fifteenth century progressed and its successor began, it became more and more the object of the poetaster to end his lines with sounding polysyllables, and verse not written in this style was regarded as uncourtly and undignified. When we once realise that this particular experiment in language was one which had to be made, and that our fifteenth-century poets made it with all their might, we can understand how Hawes could hail Lydgate as 'the most dulcet spring of famous rhetoric' (this new poetry being essentially rhetorical); how Skelton, after condescendingly praising Chaucer for the 'pleasant, easy and plain' terms in which he wrote, hastened to explain that Lydgate's efforts were 'after a higher rate'; and how the same Skelton thought it necessary in his Phylyp Sparowe to make his 'young maid' excuse herself for her ignorance of 'polished terms' and 'English words elect.' Every one in these days was searching anxiously for the right word, which is indeed the most proper object of every versifier's search. Unluckily, they only looked for it among polysyllables.

It will be gathered by this time that I hold no brief for what we must call the court poetry of the fifteenth century, that is to say, the compositions by which poets from Lydgate to Skelton sought to ingratiate themselves with noble patrons and to prove their title to immortality. When they were off their guard they wrote much better. The reminiscences of the gay days of his youth stirred Hoccleve's muse to unwonted vivacity. In the London Lick-penny Lydgate, if Lydgate's it be, wrote humorous satire with success. Skelton himself, though in his (much too respectfully spoken of) play Magnificence he could flounder with the worst of his predecessors, in his light and railing rhymes was nimble enough, and ranged easily from vigorous invective of Wolsey to pretty panegyrics of fair ladies. Now and again also these good souls ceased their search for polysyllables, looked at some fair face or pleasant landscape, and came near to a natural description. Now and again, too, when they were on their knees (it is only in prayers intended for other people that long words seem appropriate), they got down to a phrase of simple beauty. And meanwhile in the country in general, we may be sure, many simple rhymesters were keeping up old traditions; and if some diligent student would begin gleaning from the earlier miscellanies with the industry and insight by which Mr. A.H. Bullen extracted so rich a harvest from the Elizabethan song-books, surely he also would not go unrewarded. That the touch which we find in the religious poems of an earlier date in the Vernon MS. had not been wholly lost is witnessed by some favourite lines of mine from a book called Speculum Christiani, printed by Machlinia about 1485, and sometimes attributed to John Wotton—

'Mary mother, well thou be!
Mary mother, think on me;
Maiden and mother was never none
Together, Lady, save thee alone.
Sweet Lady, maiden clean,
Shield me from ill, shame and teen;
Out of sin, Lady, shield thou me.
And out of debt for charity.
Lady, for thy joyés five,
Get me grace in this live,
To know and keep over all thing,
Christian faith and God's bidding.
And truely win all that I need
To me and mine clothe and feed.
Help me, Lady, and all mine;
Shield me, Lady, from hell pine;
Shield me, Lady, from villainy
And from all wicked company.'

By the side of this religious verse is there any need to quote more than a stanza from the Nut Brown Maid just to remind us what the secular poets could do?

'Be it right or wrong, these men among, on women do complain,
Affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain
To love them well; for never a del they love a man again;
For let a man do what he can their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue their first true lover than
Laboureth for nought and from her thought he is a banished man.'

To say that English poetry was dead when verse like this was being written is absurd. It was not dead, but banished from court.

We may well grumble at the mischance which has preserved to us such quantities of the verse of men like Lydgate and Hawes, with which, despite all the blandishments of their editors, a not unwise world refuses to concern itself, and on the other hand has permitted to perish, or scattered seemingly beyond retrieving, the humbler poetry which has much greater worth. In the Robin Hood Ballads which Professor Arber has printed from an edition by Wynkyn de Worde we have at least one piece of salvage. It must be owned, indeed, that to claim a ballad as the product of any one century is rather rash, and that in some form or another this cycle was probably in existence before Chaucer died. The 'Ballad of Otterburn,' again, is founded on an incident of border war which took place in 1388 when Chaucer had just begun work on the Canterbury Tales, and this also belongs to fourteenth-century tradition. But both the one and the other, and still more certainly 'Chevy Chace,' must be reckoned in their present form to the credit of our period, and form a notable reinforcement to it, though we must regret that the early transcribers and printers took so little trouble to preserve a correct text.

Christmas carols again, as likely to be handed down from mouth to mouth in the same way as ballads, can be assigned neither to any single author nor to any precise year or even decade of composition. But the charming examples which I have picked out from a number transcribed by Professor Flügel from a Balliol College manuscript of the middle of the sixteenth century, may all safely be attributed to a date earlier than 1500, though perhaps not very much earlier, and in their simple tenderness and mirth they are in strong contrast to the pretentious poetry of the court.[3]

As with the ballads and carols, so with miracle-plays: the fact that they were handed down from one generation to another, and in each generation revised, altered, and added to, makes assignment of dates almost impossible. The play of the Shearmen and Tailors from the Coventry Gilds cycle,[4] here printed, survived in a transcript dated 1534, and it is probable that it was then copied out for the sake of combining what must originally have been four or five different plays into one. Some of these plays in their separate form may have been first written in the fourteenth century; they appear to have been added to in the fifteenth, and (as we have seen) assumed their final form in the sixteenth. The whole of the pseudo-Coventry cycle,[5] in like manner, seems to have been revised and largely written when it was last transcribed in 1468. But the supreme example of fifteenth-century addition to an older cycle is that of the Wakefield Plays, which early in the century were taken in hand by a dramatist of extraordinary ability, whose traceable contributions amount to over three thousand lines, distributed among at least six, or quite probably as many as nine different plays, of which five are homogeneous and entirely from his hand. Among these five are the well-known Prima and Secunda Pastorum, the two Shepherds' Plays with which the history of English comedy begins. The humours of the two shepherds who meet on the moor and come to blows over the grazing of an imaginary flock of sheep are good; the humours of the Secunda Pastorum, of Mak the sheep-stealer, his clever wife Gyll, the sheep that was passed off as a baby, and Mak's well-deserved blanketing,—these surely are not only good, but as good, of their kind, as they well can be. That I have not printed this second Shepherds' Play here is due partly to its being easily accessible in the Early English Text Society's edition, but chiefly to the serious obstacles its northern dialect presents to any attempt at transcribing it in modern English. The play of the Shearmen and Tailors of Coventry, on the other hand, as I have noted in my preface, cries aloud for such transcription. The fact, moreover, that in its present conglomerate condition, it gives the whole history of the Divine Infancy from the Annunciation to the Flight into Egypt makes it very representative, even the humour of the Miracle Plays being exemplified, though poorly and incongruously, in the attack of the mothers of the Innocents on Herod's knights. The different sections of the play, the work no doubt of different authors, have varying values, that of the Prophets, never very successfully handled, being much the weakest. On the other hand, in the simple gifts of the shepherds to the Holy Child we have a very fair representation of one of the stock incidents of a Nativity Play in which free scope was given to whatever tender and playful fancy the dramatist possessed. It should be said that during the fifteenth century the popularity of these plays increased enormously, records of their performance being found in all parts of England, including Cornwall and Wales, where they were acted in the vernacular.

Starting not very much later than the Miracle Plays, since we hear of them at York in the middle of the fourteenth century, the Moralities also increased greatly in popularity during our period, offering ample opportunity for the allegorising and personifying tendency which was one of its most prominent, and in many respects most baneful, characteristics. Several plays of this kind of undoubted English origin have come down to us from the fifteenth century itself, and are well worth study. Chiefly because of the interest which has been aroused by its recent performance, I have preferred to give that of The Summoning of Everyman, which, while presenting much less variety than such plays as The Castle of Perseverance, or Mind, Will, and Understanding, has the merit of being in very easy English, short, impressive, and homogeneous. It is these latter merits, quite as much as the evidence which can be obtained by comparing the two texts, that offer the best reason for acquiescing in the verdict that the Dutch play of Elckerlijk, attributed to Petrus Dorlandus, a theological writer of Diest, who died in 1507, has a better claim than our English version to be considered the original. Strict adherence to propriety of form was not a characteristic of the dramatic literature of this period, and had the play been of native origin its uniform seriousness of tone would almost assuredly have been broken by some humorous, or semi-humorous, episodes. While the two plays, with the exception of the Prologue, which is not found in the Dutch, agree speech by speech from beginning to end, the English version is not a slavish translation; indeed, the ease and happiness of the diction, and the freedom with which it moves, give it, until the Dutch text is examined, the tone of an original work, and the translator must have been a man of no small ability to achieve such a success. It should be said that the oldest Dutch edition now extant appears to have been printed about 1495; but the play may have been written some years before this, though hardly as early as 'about 1477,' the date Professor Logeman proposes, if the author was only born in 1454, for it does not read like the work of a very young man. Professor Logeman was, perhaps, influenced in proposing this date by a desire to get in front of the critics of English literature (including ten Brink), who have assigned the English play to the reign of Edward IV., i.e. not later than 1483. As in the Miracle Plays, so in the Moralities, an original purely didactic purpose was gradually influenced by a desire to render the didacticism more palatable to a popular audience by the introduction of humorous incidents. The complete absence of these from Everyman naturally caused critics to assign it the earliest possible date, so long as it was regarded as an original work. But there is nothing in the language which precludes it from having been written immediately after 1495, when we know that a Dutch edition was in print, and in judging it as a translation we may be content to assign it to the end of the fifteenth century. It is worth noting that at that date there must already have been considerable literary intercourse between England and Holland, and that several popular English books had already been printed at Antwerp for the English market.

It would have been pleasant to me, as a lover of these forerunners of the Elizabethan drama, to have advanced from the Miracle Play and Morality, and have given examples of the Moral-Interlude and Farce; but these belong emphatically to the sixteenth century, and come too near the drama itself for inclusion in a non-dramatic 'Garner.' But as a counterpart to Professor Arber's Trial of William Thorpe for Heresy, I have ventured to reprint here from the Transactions of the Bibliographical Society some pleadings in a theatrical lawsuit of the reign of Henry VIII., one of the many interesting discoveries published by Mr. Henry Plomer. Mr. Plomer's own interest in the pleadings, and the reason which made them suitable for publication by a Society in no wise concerned with the history of the drama, arose from the fact that the plaintiff in the case, John Rastell, besides being a lawyer and (it is believed) a writer of interludes, was also a printer, details of any kind that can be gleaned about the lives of early printers being always welcome to bookish antiquaries. But these particular details about Rastell's stage in his garden, the classes from which actors were drawn, the value of the dresses they wore, the practice of hiring the dresses out, and the rather puzzling distinction made between stage-plays and interludes,[6] are all of considerable interest for our period of the drama, and it seemed a good deed to give them wider publicity.

We pass now from a survey of its poetry, both non-dramatic and dramatic, to the work done in the fifteenth century for the development of English prose. Until quite towards the close of the fourteenth century England can hardly be said to have possessed any prose literature not avowedly or practically of a didactic character. To save some one's soul or to improve some one's morals were seemingly the only motives which could suffice to persuade an Englishman to write his native language except in verse. The impulse towards prose-writing may perhaps be dated from about 1380, the date of the first Wyclifite translation of the Bible. Of this the books of the Old Testament, as far as Daniel, are stated on contemporary authority to have been rendered by Nicholas Hereford; while historians, after salving their conscience by confessing that there is substantially no evidence for attributing the rest of the work to Wyclif, wherever they have afterwards to mention it, invariably connect it with his name. A revised edition, usually assigned to Wyclif's friend, John Purvey, was completed a few years later. It was about 1380 that Chaucer was engaged in translating Boethius's De Consolatione Philosophiæ, and not long afterwards Usk wrote his Testament of Love. The first really secular English book of any importance, the translation of Mandeville's Travels, which has come down to us in a Cotton manuscript, was probably made about the end of the century, and was quickly succeeded by two variant versions. John of Trevisa, an Oxford scholar, was the first to English an important historical work, and a book of popular science, the Polychronicon of Higden and the De Proprietatibus Rerum of Bartholomew.

It was necessarily by the free use of translation that an English secular prose literature had to be built up. All the standard works hitherto had been written in Latin, or in a few cases in French; and now that English had been recognised, alike at court, in the law-courts, and in the schools, as the natural language of the inhabitants of England, the first thing which had to be done was to provide Englishmen with the ordinary sources of information in their own language. The need for translation directed attention to its principles and canons, and two interesting little essays on the subject are here printed—the one from the preface, said to be by Purvey, to the second Wyclifite Bible, and the other from that prefixed by Trevisa to his translation of Higden's Polychronicon. I have particular pleasure in placing these two prefaces side by side, because, as far as I know, the really striking resemblances between them, in their grammatical remarks, in their survey of previous attempts at an English translation of the Bible, and in their attitude to such a translation, have never been pointed out. Without wishing to intrude myself into controversial matters on which no one is entitled to speak who has not made a special study of the subject, I would fain again draw attention to the fact that whereas we have a definite statement by Caxton[7] that the Polychronicon 'was englisshed by one Trevisa, vicarye of barkley, which atte request of one Sir Thomas lord barkley translated the sayd book [which we have], the byble, and bartylmew de proprietatibus rerum [which we have] out of latyn into englysshe,' in the case of Purvey his name was first mentioned in connection with Bible translation in 1729 by Daniel Waterton, who 'guessed' and 'pitched upon' him (Waterton's Works, vol. x. p. 361) as the author of the second version, partly on the ground of his general prominence as a Wyclifite, and also because of his ownership of a Bible in Trinity College, Dublin, which Waterland hoped would prove to be of that version. As it happens, the text, which is only that of the New Testament, is, apparently throughout, that of the earlier version, with some of the Prologues of the later version to separate books inserted. Inasmuch also as the manuscript was not completed till 1427 or later, its bearing on the question of the authorship of a translation, which had then been in circulation for some thirty years, does not appear to be very great. It was open to any one to combine the different parts of the two versions in any way he pleased, and that Purvey seems to have preferred the text of the earlier version and the prologues of the later hardly proves that the later version is due to him. If we must drag him in at all, it would be much more reasonable to assign to him the completion of Nicholas of Hereford's unfinished work.

Lightly arrived at as it was, Waterland's 'guess' was adopted by Forshall and Madden in their fine edition of the two versions published in 1850, and as buttressed up by them with what seems to me a very weak additional argument, has ever since been repeated as an established fact.[8] The readiness with which the conjecture was accepted can only be accounted for by the desire to make the work of translation centre at Lutterworth instead of, as I believe to have been the case, at Oxford. It seems to be considered that we shall be robbing Wyclif of his due unless the translations are connected with him as closely as possible. Burdened as he was in his last years with age and infirmities, it is surely enough if he inspired others to work at this great task; we need not insist that he must have written at least part of the first translation with his own hands, and that the second must have begun under his immediate eye. I would submit, indeed, that the tone of the second translator's reference to 'the English Bible late translated' (p. 195) is quite incompatible with any such theory. We know from the manuscript note in the Bodleian ms. that Nicholas of Hereford began the translation of the Old Testament; and when his work was interrupted by the necessity for flight, it is far more likely that it was taken up by some other of Wyclif's numerous disciples at Oxford rather than by the master himself, while the fact that it was the work of his disciples, urged no doubt by his wish, would amply account for such references as may be found to it under Wyclif's name. For the second translation, it seems to me that the tone of the reference already quoted, and the detailed account (see p. 194) which the translator gives of the method in which he went to work, compel us to seek an independent origin, and to look for some other translator less immediately under Wyclif's influence. The freedom with which the Bible admittedly circulated for many years, and the well-known allusion by Sir Thomas More to an English translation untouched by any taint of heresy, point also in the same direction. That the second version is really only a revision of the first can hardly be adduced as a strong argument on the other side. The ethics of literary acknowledgment were not appreciated in Trevisa's days, and I believe that a very similar relation can be found on comparison of what is known as the 'Vulgate' text of Mandeville with that of the Cotton manuscript, which the second translator appears to have used freely, though in this case without improving on it. At any rate, William Caxton seems a better authority than an eighteenth-century divine as to the authorship of a translation made only a few years before he was born. We know that Trevisa was what we may call a professional translator, well equipped for his task; and we find him in the preface to the Polychronicon discussing the translation of the Bible in a strikingly similar spirit to that in which it is discussed in the Prologue to one of the translations which have come down to us. It is to be hoped that the subject may receive further investigation, and that without the importation of theological bias.

We meet with the name of John Purvey once more in one of the longest and most interesting of the pieces here printed, the Examination of William Thorpe before Archbishop Arundel, held at Saltwood Castle in Kent in 1407. 'I know none more covetous shrews,' said the Archbishop to Thorpe in his railing way, 'than ye are when that ye have a benefice. For, lo! I gave to John Purvey a benefice (that of West Hythe, which Purvey held for fourteen months from August 1401) but a mile out of this castle, and I heard more complaints about his covetousness for tithes and other misdoings than I did of all men that were advanced within my diocese.' 'Sir,' replied Thorpe, 'Sir, Purvey is neither with you now for the benefice ye gave him, nor holdeth he faithfully with the learning that he taught and writ beforetime; and thus he sheweth himself neither to be hot nor cold; and therefore he and his fellows may sore dread that if they turn not hastily to the way that they have forsaken, peradventure they be put out of the number of Christ's chosen people.'

The Archbishop's answer was to mutter threats against Purvey as a 'false harlot'; and so the Bible-translator, if such he were, was abused on both sides. The dialogue about him is a fair instance of the vividness with which Thorpe's account of his trial illustrates the fortunes of Wyclif's followers when they scattered before their persecutors without any leader to rally them. Thorpe was accused of holding all the chief tenets of Wyclif's which were condemned as contrary to the Church's order and teaching, and his answers, according to the account he gives of them, were at once bold and prudent. He seems, moreover, to have had a real gift as a reporter, and to have exercised it impartially enough, for not every Lollard would have put into his examiner's mouth that remarkably happy defence of taking a bagpipe on pilgrimage, which will be found on page 141. Thorpe, though he was sent back to prison, lived to write this account of his trial three-and-fifty years after it took place, but Sir John Oldcastle was burnt alive, despite all Prince Hal's efforts to win him to recant and save himself, and the short account of his trial, which follows that of Thorpe, has thus a more tragic interest.

The persecution of the Lollards was but an incident in the fifteenth century, little affecting its literature, though the burning of Oldcastle called forth a bad poem by Hoccleve. The wasteful wars in France, and the turmoil of the Roses, on the other hand, had a great and most disastrous influence. After Lydgate's death about 1447, Capgrave was our leading man of letters, and on his death in 1464 the post was left vacant, unless Master Bennet Burgh can be considered as having held it. The Paston Letters, which begin in 1422 and cover the rest of the century (till 1507), offer some consolation for the lack of more formal literature, but the lack is undeniable. Moreover, not only literature, but the bookish arts suffered terribly from this depression. The fine English illuminated manuscripts which at the beginning of the century had vied with those of France, ceased to be produced after about 1430 (the siege of Orleans was raised by Jeanne Darc in 1429, and the synchronism may be significant), and with the illuminations, the simpler art of penmanship declined also. It was thus small wonder that the art of printing was introduced but tardily to our country, more than twenty years after the first printed Bible had appeared at Mainz, and that, typographically, William Caxton, with no fine models in contemporary English manuscripts to guide him, produced no single book that can stand comparison with the best work of foreign printers. But if he was a poor printer, he was a most enterprising and skilful publisher, and in his homely way a genuine and most prolific journeyman of letters. As the word journeyman is written, shame bids us strike out the first half of it, lest we seem to cast a slight upon one who did so excellent a work for English literature, whose enthusiasm was so genuine and whose industry so great. But Caxton was always modest for himself, and we shall serve him best by not putting his claims too high. When he commenced author there is an ingenuity in the way he mixes his constructions, which, though it may delight his lovers, compels some little caution in introducing him, haply, to new readers, whom such a paragraph as that which begins 'When I remember' on page 213 might easily affront. But he certainly improved his style by constant practice, and the handful of his prefaces and epilogues here printed do not lack literary charm, while the information they give of the man, his character, his enthusiasms, and his business can hardly fail to please any reasonably sympathetic reader. Take, for instance, these delightful confidences as to the fears and hopes attendant on his translation and publication of that bulky work, the Golden Legend of Jacobus de Voragine, which might well daunt even an enterprising publisher:—

'And forasmuch as this said work was great and over chargeable to me to accomplish, I feared me in the beginning of the translation to have continued it, because of the long time of the translation and also in the imprinting of the same, and in manner half desperate to have accomplished it, was in purpose to have left it, after that I had begun to translate it, and to have laid it apart, ne had it been at the instance and request of the puissant, noble and virtuous Earl, my Lord William Earl of Arundel, which desired me to proceed and continue the said work, and promised me to take a reasonable quantity of them when they were achieved and accomplished, and sent to me a worshipful gentleman, a servant of his named John Stanney, which solicited me in my lord's name that I should in no wise leave it, but accomplish it, promising that my said lord should during his life give and grant to me a yearly fee, that is to wit a buck in summer and a doe in winter, with which fee I hold me well content. Then at the contemplation and reverence of my said lord I have endeavoured me to make an end and finish this said translation and also have imprinted it in the most best wise that I have, could or might, and present this said book to his good and noble lordship, as chief causer of the achieving of it, praying him to take it in gree of me William Caxton, his poor servant, and that it like him to remember my fee, and I shall pray unto Almighty God for his long life and welfare, and after this short and transitory life to come into everlasting joy in heaven, the which he send to him and to me and unto all them that shall read and hear this said book, that for the love and faith of whom all these holy saints hath suffered death and passion. Amen.'

Few publishers since Caxton's days have let us so far into their secrets, and we can but hope that his patron really took 'a reasonable quantity' of the edition (another was published in a few years, so he probably did), and that the bucks and the does furnished many jolly dinners. Elsewhere in these prefaces Caxton tells us how he was induced to take up the art of printing, narrates the trouble, in which he has had successors, in getting a good text of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, pokes fun at English ladies and at another of his patrons, the Earl of Rivers, and sets down what is still one of the best criticisms ever penned of Malory's King Arthur. With the mention of that noble work it is well to finish this brief sketch of our fifteenth-century literature. It is too well known, too easily accessible, for any snippets to be quoted from it here. But with the English version of Mandeville at the beginning of our period, and Malory's Arthur completed in 1469 and published in 1483, it is evident that we can lay claim to two masterpieces which have not yet lost their hold on modern readers. The simplicity and feeling of Everyman has lately obtained recognition. I hope that, when boys and girls are taught a little more of their own language, the play of Max the Sheepstealer may win even greater popularity, for it is an ideal play for children to act. If we throw in 'Chevy Chace' and the 'Nut Brown Maid' and the 'Robin Hood Ballads,' we shall not be lacking for poetry. For the interest which we now seek in a realistic novel we might well go to the Paston Letters. There are not a few nations of Europe which might be well pleased if they could show, century by century, as good a record as this. It is only in fact the ill-fortune which placed it midway between Chaucer and Shakespeare, and our own perversity which persists in associating it mainly with Lydgate and Hoccleve, that causes us to contemn this particular century as dull.

Footnotes:

[1] Spring.

[2] Whispering.

[3] Printed by him in 1894 in a 'Festschrift' in honour of Professor Hildebrand.

[4] To be carefully distinguished from the so-called Coventry Plays of Cotton MS., Vespasian, D. viii., whose highly doubtful connection with Coventry rests solely on a note of Cotton's librarian.

[5] It would be convenient if they could be called the Cotton Plays, as the Wakefield cycle has been called after the Towneley family.

[6] See p. 316. Stage-plays were acted in the summer, interludes in the winter, the cost of hiring dresses being apparently from three to five times as great for a stage-play as for an interlude. My own interpretation is that the distinction has nothing to do with the plays acted, but solely to the place of performance, interludes being acted indoors and stage-plays in the open air, where the dresses were exposed to greater damage.

[7] Prohemye to Polychronicon, ad fin.

[8] The argument as I understand it runs as follows:—

(i) The author of the Prologue is the author of the Translation of the Bible (which may be granted, though not without the reservation that the helpers to whom allusion is made may have written sections of the Prologue, which would confuse any deductions).

(ii) The Prologue has verbal resemblances to the treatise designated Ecclesiæ Regimen (the instances quoted seem to me resemblances merely of topics, and these not uncommon ones).

(iii) The Ecclesiæ Regimen resembles Purvey's confession at his recantation in 1400 (the previous criticism applies here much more strongly).

Therefore the translation of the Bible is by the author of the Ecclesiæ Regimen, and the author of this is Purvey. I must repeat that the chain seems to me lamentably weak, and that the resemblances which may be found between Section xv. of the Prologue and Trevisa's Dialogue and Letter to Lord Berkeley are stronger, because not arising out of quite such common topics. That they are only to a slight extent verbal resemblances is no drawback. We do not expect a man to repeat his own words exactly. What is interesting is to find two translators both interested in their own methods, and these methods similar.

JOHN LYDGATE (?).

The Siege of Harfleur and the
Battle of Agincourt

1415.

Hereafter followeth the Battle of Agincourt and the great Siege of Rouen, by King Henry of Monmouth, the Fifth of the name; that won Gascony, and Guienne, and Normandy.

[See Sir Harris Nicolas's History of the Battle of Agincourt, p. 301, 2nd Ed. 1832, 8vo.]

od, that all this world did make
And died for us upon a tree,
Save England, for Mary thy Mother's sake!
As Thou art steadfast GOD in Trinity.
And save King Henry's soul, I beseech thee!
That was full gracious and good withal;
A courteous Knight and King royal.
Of Henry the Fifth, noble man of war,
Thy deeds may never forgotten be!
Of Knighthood thou wert the very Loadstar!
In thy time England flowered in prosperity,
Thou mortal Mirror of all Chivalry!
Though thou be not set among the Worthies Nine;
Yet wast thou a Conqueror in thy time!

The Dauphin's offer of tennis balls.

King Henry will go to France.

The English arrive in Normandy.

The guns play tennis with Harfleur.

King Henry grants a Truce.

The French surrender Harfleur.

21,000 French sent out of Harfleur.

Englishmen to be sold six for a penny.

The famous Battle of Agincourt.

King Henry's Triumph in London.

The Lamentable Siege of Rouen.

Thus endeth the Battle of Agincourt.

Imprinted at London in Foster lane,
in Saint Leonard's parish,
by me John Skot.

F I N I S.

Footnotes:

[9] 1st August 1415.

[10] 7th August 1415.

[11] It should be Clef de caus.

[12] 14th August 1415.

[13] 10th September 1415.

[14] It should be Sir Lionel Braquemont.

[15] 22nd September 1415.

[16] 22nd September 1415.

[17] It should be Sir Thomas Erpingham.

[18] It should be Sir Gilbert Umfreville.

[19] It should be Sir William Bourchier.

[20] ?8th October 1415.

[21] It should be Somme.

[22] 25th October 1415.

[23] 16th November 1415.

[24] 22nd November 1415.

[25] 23rd November 1415.

Thomas Occleve,

Clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal.

The Letter of Cupid.

[Old forms like serven, serve; wollen, will; tellen, tell; doin, done; and the Imperatives bethe, be; telleth, tell; occur in this Poem.]

T. Occleve. 1402.

upido, (unto whose commandèment
The gentle kindred of goddis on high
And people infernal be obedient;
And mortal folk all serven busily),
Of the goddess son Cythera only;
Unto all those that to our deity
Be subjects, heartly greeting, sendè we!
In general, we wollen that ye know
That Ladies of honour and reverence,
And other Gentlewomen havin sow
Such seed of complaint in our audience,
Of men that do them outrage and offence;
That it our earis grieveth for to hear,
So piteous is the effect of this matere.
Passing all landis, on the little isle
That cleped is Albion, they most complain,
They say that there is crop and root of guile:
So can those men dissimulen and feign,
With standing dropis in their eyen twain;
When that their heartis feeleth no distress,
To blinden women with their doubleness.

Their wordis, spoken be so sighingly,
With so piteous a cheer and countenance
That every wight that meaneth truèly
Deemeth that they in heart have such grievance.
They say, "So importable is their penance,
That but their lady lust to shew them grace
They, right anon, must starven in the place."
"Ah, Lady mine!" they say, "I you ensure
As doth me grace! and I shall ever be,
While that my life may laste and endure
To you as humble and low in each degree
As possible is, and keep all things secree
Right as yourselven listé that I do!
And elles must mine heartè burst in two."
Full hard it is, to know a manis heart
For outward may no man the truthè deem,
When word out of his mouth may none astert
But it by reason seemed a wight to queme,
So it is said of heart, as it would seem.
O faithful woman! full of innocence!
Thou art deceivèd by false appearance!
By process moveth oft woman's pity.
Weening all things were as these men ysay,
They grant them grace, of their benignity,
For that men shoulden not, for their sake die,
And with good hearte, set them in the way
Of blissful lové: keep it, if they con!
Thus, otherwhilé, women beth ywon.

And when this man the pan hath by the steel
And fully is in his possession;
With that woman keepeth he no more to deal
After, if he may finden in the town
Any woman, his blind affection
On to bestow. But evil mote he preve!
A man, for all his oaths, is hard to believe!
And for that every false Man hath a Make,
(As unto every wight is light to know)
When this traitor, this woman hath forsake,
He fast him speedeth unto his fellow.
Till he be there, his heart is on a low;
His false deceit ne may him not suffice,
But of his treason telleth all the wise.
Is this a fair avaunt? Is this honour?
A man himself accuse thus and defame!
Is it good to confess himself a traitor?
And bring a woman into slanderous name
And tell how he her body hath do shame?
No worship may he thus, to him conquer,
But great dislander unto him and her!
To her! Nay! Yet ywas it no reprefe;
For all for virtue was, that she ywrought!
But he that brewèd hath all this mischief,
That spake so fair, and falsely inward thought;
His be the slander! as it by reason ought
And unto her be thank perpetual
That, in such a neede helpen can so well.

Although through manis sleight and subtilty,
A silly simple and innocent woman
Betrayed is: no wonder! since the city
Of Troy, as that the story tellen can,
Betrayèd was, through the deceit of man,
And set on fire, and all down overthrow;
And finally destroyèd, as men know.
Betrayen not men cities great and kings?
What wight is it that can shape remedy
Against these falsely proposèd things?
Who can the craft such craftés to espy
But man? whose wit is e'er ready to apply
To thing that sowning is into falshede?
Woman! beth'ware of false men! I thee rede.
And, furthermore, have these men in usage
That where they not likely been to sped,
Such as they been with a double visage,
They procuren, for to pursue their need;
He prayeth him, in his causé to proceed,
And largely guerdoneth he his travail.
Little wot women, how men them assail!
Another wretch, unto his fellow saith,
"Thou fishest fair! She which that thee hath fired
Is false, inconstant, and she hath no faith.
She for the road of folk is so desired;
And, as an horse, from day to day she is hired!
That when thou twinnest from her company,
Cometh another; and bleared is thine eye!

Now prick on faste! and ride thy journey
While thou art there! For she, behind thy back,
So liberal is, she will nothing withsay,
But smartly of another take a smack.
And thus faren these women all the pack
Whoso them trusteth, hanged mote he be!
Ever they desire change and novelty."
Whereof proceedeth this, but of envy?
For that he himselve her ne winnen may.
He speaketh her reprefe and villainy;
As manis blabbing tongue is wont alway.
Thus divers men full often make assay.
For to disturben folk in sundry wise,
For they may not acheven their emprise.
Many one eke would speaken for no good,
That hath in love his timè spent and used.
Men wist, his Lady his asking withstood;
Ere that he were of her, plainly refused.
Or waste and vain were all that he had mused:
Wherefore he can none other remedy,
But on his Lady shapeth him to lie.
"Every woman," he saith, "is light to get,
Can none say, 'Nay!' if she be well ysought;
Whoso may leisure have with her to treat
Of his purpose ne shall be failen ought
But he on madness be so deep ybrought
That he shende all with open homeliness;
That loven women not, as that I guess."

To slaunder women thus, what may profit
To gentles? namely, that them armen should,
And in defence of women them delight
As that the Order of Gentilesse would?
If that a man list gentle to be held
He must all flee that thereto is contrary.
A slanderous tongue is his great adversary!
A foul vice is of tongue to be light.
For whoso mochil clappeth, gabbeth oft.
The Tongue of Man so swift is, and so wight
That when it is yraisèd up on loft,
Reason it sueth so slowly and soft,
That it him never overtaken may.
Lord! so these men been trusty in assay!
Albeit that men find one woman nice,
Inconstant, recheless, and variable,
Deignous and proud, full fillèd of malice,
Withouten faith or love, and deceivable,
Sly, quaint, false, in all untrust culpable,
Wicked or fierce, or full of cruelty:
Yet followeth not that such all women be!
When the high God angellis formèd had,
Among them alle formed were there none
That founden were malicious and bad?
Yes! all men wot that there were many one
That for their pridé fell from heaven anon.
Should we, forthy, give all angels proud name?
Nay, he that that sustaineth, is to blame!

Of twelve Apostles, one a traitor was;
The remenant yet good weren and true.
So if it happen men finden, percase,
A woman false; such good is to eschew:
And deemé not that they be all untrue.
I see well, that men's owné falseness
Them causeth woman for to trust the less.
O, every man ought have a hearté tender
Unto woman, and deem her honourable;
Whether her shape be thick, or else slender,
Or she be good or bad! It is no fable.
Every wight wot, that wit hath reasonable,
That of a woman, he descendèd is:
Then is it shame of her to speak amiss!
A wicked tree good fruit may none forth bring;
For such the fruit is aye as is the tree.
Take heed of whom thou took thy beginning!
Let thy mother be mirror unto thee!
Honour her, if thou wilt honoured be!
Despiseth her then not, in no manere!
Lest that thereby thy wickedness appear.
An old proverb there said is, in English,
That bird or fowl, soothly, is dishonest
What that he be, and holden full churlish
That useth to defoulen his own nest.
Men to say well of women, it is the best:
And naught for to despise them, ne deprave;
If that they will their honour keep or save.

The Ladies ever complainen them on Clerks
That they have made bookis of their defame;
In which they despise women and their works,
And speaken of them great reproof and shame:
And causèless give them a wicked name.
Thus they despisèd be, on every side,
Dislanderèd and blown upon full wide.
Those sorry bookes maken mention
How women betrayed in especial
Adam, David, Sampson, and Solomon,
And many one more; who may rehearse them all,
The treasons that they havé done, and shall?
The world their malice may not comprehend
(As Clerkis feign), for it ne hath none end.
Ovid, in his book called Remedy
Of Lovè, great reproof of woman writeth,
Wherein, I know that he did great folly;
And every wight who, in such case, him delighteth.
A Clerkis custom is, when he enditeth
Of women (be it prose, or rhyme, or verse)
Say, "They be wicked!" all know he the reverse.
And the book Scholars learned in their childhead
For they of women beware should in age,
And for to love them ever be in dread.
Sith to deceive is set all their courage,
They say peril to cast is advantage,
Namely, of such as men have in been wrapped:
For many a man, by woman hath mishapped.

No charge is what so that these Clerkis sain
Of all their writing I ne do no cure
All their labour and travail is in vain
For between me and my Lady Nature
Shall not be suffred, while the world may 'dure.
Thus these Clerkis, by their cruel tyranny,
On silly women kithen their mastery.
Whilom full many of them were in my chain
Ytied; and now, what for unwieldy age
And unlust, they may not to love attain:
And sain that "Love is but very dotage!"
Thus, for that they themself lacken courage,
They folk exciten by their wicked saws
For to rebell against me, and my laws!
But, maugre them that blamen women most,
Such is the force of mine impression
That, suddenly, I can fell all their boast,
And all their wrong imagination.
It shall not be in their election
The foulest slut in all the town to refuse;
If that me list, for all that they can muse:
But her in heart as brenningly desire
As though she were a Duchess, or a Queen;
So can I folkis heartis set on fire
And, as me list, them senden joy or teen.
They that to women ben ywhet so keen,
My sharpè piercing strokis, how they smite,
Shall feel and know, and how they kerve and bite!

Pardie! this Clerk, this subtle sly Ovid
And many another have deceived be
Of women, as it knowen is full wide.
What! no men more! and that is great dainty
So excellent a Clerk as was he!
And other more, that coulde full well preach
Betrapped were, for aught that they could teach!
And trusteth well, that it is no marvail!
For women knowen plainly their intent.
They wist how softily they could assail
Them; and what falsehood they in heartè meant:
And thus they Clerkis in their danger hent,
With one venom, another is destroyed!
And thus these Clerkis often were annoyed.
These Ladies, ne these gentles ne'ertheless,
Where none of those that wroughten in this wise;
But such women as weren vertueless
They quittin thus these old Clerkis wise.
To Clerkis muchil less ought to suffice
Than to dispraven women generally;
For worship shall they geten noon thereby.
If that these men, that lovers them pretend,
To women weren faithful, good, and true,
And dread them to deceive, or to offend;
Women, to love them wouldé not eschew.
But, every day hath man an harté new!
It upon one abiden can no while.
What force is it, such a wight to beguile?

Men bearen, eke, the women upon hand
That lightly, and withouten any pain
They wonnen be; they can no wight withstand
That his disease list to them to complain!
They be so frail, they may them not refrain!
But whoso liketh them may lightly have;
So be their heartis easy in to grave.
To Master Jean de Meun, as I suppose,
Then, it is a lewd occupation,
In making of the Romance of the Rose,
So many a sly imagination,
And perils for to rollen up and down,
So long process, so many a sly cautel
For to deceive a silly damosel!
Nought can I see, ne my wit comprehend,
That art, and pain, and subtilty should fail
For to conquer, and soon to make an end;
When men a feeble placé shall assail:
And soon, also, to vanquish a battle
Of which no wight shall maken resistance;
Ne heart hath none to stonden at defence.
Then mote it follow, of necessity,
Sith art asketh so great engine and pain
A woman to deceive, what so she be?
Of constancy be they not so barren
As that some of these subtle Clerkis feign;
But they be, as that women oughten be,
Sad, constant, and fulfilled of pity.

How friendly was Medea to Jason
In his Conquering of the Fleece of Gold!
How falsely quit he her true affection,
By whom victory he gat as he would!
How may this man, for shame, be so bold
To falsen her, that, from his death and shame
Him kept, and gat him so great a prize and name?
Of Troy also, the traitor Æneas,
The faithless wretch! how he himself forswor
To Dido, which that Queen of Carthage was
That him relievèd of his smartis sore!
What gentilessè might she have doon more
Than she, with heart unfeigned, to him kidde?
And what mischief to her thereof betid!
In my Legend of Martyrs may men find
(Whoso that liketh therein for to read)
That oathis ne behest may man not bind
Of reprovable shame have they no dread
In manis hearte truth ne hath no stead.
The soil is naught; there may be no trothè grow!
To women, namely, it is not unknown.
Clerkis feign also there is no malice
Like unto woman's wicked crabbedness.
O Woman! how shalt thou thyself chevice;
Sith men of thee so mochil harm witness?
Beth ware! O Woman! of their fickleness.
Kepeth thine ownè! what men clap or crake!
And some of them shall smart, I undertake!

Malice of women! What is it to dread?
They slay no man, destroyen no cities,
Ne oppress people, ne them overlead,
Betray Empires, Realmes, or Duchies,
Nor bereaven men their landis, ne their mees,
Empoison folk, ne houses set on fire,
Ne false contractis maken for no hire.
Trust, Perfect Love, and Entire Charity,
Fervent Will, and Entalented Courage,
All thewis good, as sitteth well to be,
Have women ay, of custom and usage.
And well they can a manis ire assuage,
With softè wordis, discreet and benign.
What they be inward, they show outward by sign.
Womanis heart unto no cruelty
Inclined is; but they be Charitable,
Piteous, Devout, Full of Humility,
Shamefastè, Debonaire, and Amiable,
Dread full, and of their wordis measurable:
What women, these have not, peradventure;
Followeth not the way of her nature.
Men sayen that our First Mother na'theless
Made all mankinde lose his liberty,
And nakid it of joyè, doubteless,
For Godis hestès disobeyed she,
When she presumed to taste of the tree,
That God forbade that she eat thereof should.
And ne had the Devil be, no more she would!

The envious swelling, that the Fiend our foe
Had unto man in heartè, for his wealth,
Sent a serpent, and made her for to go
To deceive Eve; and thus was manis health
Bereft him by the Fiend, right in a stealth,
The woman not knowing of the deceit,
God wot! Full far was it from her conceit!
Wherefore I say, that this good woman Eve
Our father Adam, ne deceived nought.
There may no man for a deceit it preve
Properly, but if that she, in heart and thought,
Had it compassed first, ere she it wrought.
And for such was not her impression,
Men may it call no Deceit, by reason.
Ne no wight deceiveth, but he purpose!
The fiend this deceit cast, and nothing she.
Then it is wrong to deemen or suppose
That of this harm she should the causè be.
Wytith the Fiend, and his be the maugree!
And all excusèd have her innocence,
Save only, that she brake obedience!
And touching this, full fewè men there be,
Unnethis any, dare I safely say!
From day to day, as men may all day see,
But that the hest of God they disobey.
Have this in mindè, siris! I you pray.
If that ye be discreet and reasonable;
Ye will her holdè the more excusable!

And where men say, "In man is stedfastness;
And woman is of her courage unstable."
Who may of Adam bear such a witness?
Tellith me this! Was he not changeable?
They bothè werin in one case semblable.
Save that willing the Fiend deceived Eve;
And so did she not Adam, by your leave!
Yet was this sinnè happy to mankind,
The Fiend deceivèd was, for all his sleight;
For aught he could him in his sleightis wind,
God, to discharge man of the heavy weight
Of his trespass, came down from heaven on height
And flesh and blood he took of a Virgine,
And suffered death, him to deliver of pine.
And God, to whom there may nothing hid be,
If He in woman knowen had such malice,
As men record of them in generalty;
Of our Lady, of Life Reparatrice
Nold have been born: but for that she of vice
Was void, and full of virtue, well He wist,
Endowid! of her to be born Him list.
Her heapèd virtue hath such excellence
That all too lean is manis faculty
To declare it; and therefore in suspense
Her due praising put must needis be.
But this we witen, verily, that she,
Next God, the best friend is that to Man 'longeth.
The Key of Mercy by her girdle hangeth!

And of mercy hath every man such need,
That razing that, farewel the joy of man!
And of her power, now takith right good heed!
She mercy may well and purchasen can.
Depleasith her not! Honoureth that woman!
And other women honour for her sake!
And but ye do, your sorrow shall awake!
In any book also, where can ye find
That of the workis, or the death or life,
Of Jesu spelleth or maketh any mind,
That women Him forsook, for woe or strife?
Where was there any wight so ententife
Abouten Him as woman? Proved none!
The Apostles him forsooken everichone.
Woman forsook him not! For all the faith
Of holy church in woman left only!
These are no lies, for Holy Writ thus saith,
Look! and ye shall so find it hardily!
And therefore I may well proven thereby
That in woman reigneth stable constancy;
And in men is change and variancy.
Thou Precious Gem of martyrs, Margarite!
That of thy blood dreadest none effusion!
Thou Lover true! Thou Maiden mansuete!
Thou, constant Woman! in thy passion
Overcame the Fiendis temptation!
And many a wight convertid thy doctrine,
Unto the faith of God, holy Virgin!

But, understandeth this! I commend her nought,
By encheson of her virginity.
Trusteth, it came never into thought!
For ever werry against Chastity.
And ever shall. But, lo, this moveth me,
Her loving heart and constant to her lay
Drove out of my remembrance I ne may.

Now holdith this for firm, and for no lie!
That this true and just commendation
Of women tell I for no flattery;
Nor because of pride or elation:
But only, lo! for this intention
To give them courage of perseverance
In virtue, and their honour to advance.
The more the virtue, the less is the pride.
Virtue so digne is, and so noble in kind,
That Vice and he will not in fere abide.
He putteth vices clean out of his mind,
He flyeth from them, he leaveth them behind.
O, Woman! that of Virtue, art hostess;
Great is thy honour, and thy worthiness!

Then will I thus concluden and define.
We, you command! our ministers each one
That ready ye be our hestès to incline!
That of these falsè men, our rebell foon,
Ye do punishèment! and that, anon!
Void them our Court! and banish them for ever!
So that therein more comen may they never!

Fulfilled be it! Ceasing all delay,
Look that there be none excusation!
Written in the air, the lusty month of May,
In our Palace, where many a million
Of lovers true, have habitation;
In the year of grace, joyful and jocond,
A thousand and four hundred and second.

Thus endeth

The letter of Cupid.

The Ballad of

Robin Hood.

The first printed edition by

Wynkyn de Worde,

about 1510.

ithe and listen, Gentlemen
That be of free-born blood!
I shall you tell of a good yeoman:
His name was Robin Hood.
Robin was a proud outlaw,
Whiles he walked on ground,
So courteous an outlaw as he was one,
Was never none yfound.
Robin stood in Bernysdale,
And leaned him to a tree;
And by him stood Little John,
A good yeoman was he:
And also did good Scathelock,
And Much the miller's son,
There was no inch of his body
But it was worth a groom.
Then bespake him Little John,
All unto Robin Hood,
"Master, if ye would dine betime,
It would do you much good!"
Then bespake good Robin,
"To dine I have no lust,
Till I have some bold Baron,
Or some unketh guest,
That may pay for the best,
Or some Knight or some Squire
That dwelleth here by West."
A good manner then had Robin,
In land where that he were,
Every day or he would dine,
Three Masses would he hear.
The one in the worship of the Father
The other of the Holy Ghost,
The third was of our dear Lady
That he loved, aldermost.
Robin loved our dear Lady;
For doubt of deadly sin,
Would he never do company harm
That any woman was in.
"Master!" then said Little John,
"And we our board shall spread,
Tell us, Whither we shall gone,
And what life we shall lead?
Where we shall take? Where we shall leave?
Where we shall abide behind?
Where shall we rob? where shall we 'reave?
Where we shall beat and bind?"
"Thereof no force!" said Robin,
"We shall do well enough!
But look, ye do no husband harm,
That tilleth with his plough!
No more ye shall no good yeoman
That walketh by green-wood shaw!
Ne no Knight, ne no Squire
That would be a good fellaw!
These Bishops and these Archbishops,
Ye shall them beat and bind!
The High Sheriff of Nottingham,
Him hold ye in your mind!"
"This word shall be held," saith Little John,
"And this lesson shall we lere!
It is far day, God send us a guest,
That we were at our dinnèr!"
"Take thy good bow in thy hand," said Robin,
"Let Much wend with thee!
And so shall William Scathelock!
And no man abide with me.
And walk up to the Sayles,
And so to Watling street,
And wait after some unketh guest,
Upchance, ye may them meet:
Be he Earl or any Baron,
Abbot or any Knight,
Bring him to lodge to me!
His dinner shall be dight!"
They went unto the Sayles,
These yeomen all three;
They looked East, they looked West,
They might no man see.
But as they looked in Bernysdale,
By a derne street,
Then came there a Knight riding:
Full soon they 'gan him meet.
All dreary then was his semblante,
And little was his pride,
His one foot in the stirrup stood,
That other waved beside.
His hood hanged in his eyen two,
He rode in simple array;
A sorrier man than he was one,
Rode never in summer's day.
Little John was full curteys,
And set him on his knee,
"Welcome be ye, gentle Knight!
Welcome are ye to me!
Welcome be thou to green wood,
Hende Knight and free!
My master hath abiden you fasting,
Sir! all these hours three!"
"Who is your master?" said the Knight.
John said, "Robin Hood!"
"He is a good yeoman," said the Knight;
"Of him I have heard much good!
I grant," he said, "with you to wend,
My brethren all in-fere:
My purpose was to have dined to-day
At Blyth or Doncaster."
Forth then went that gentle Knight,
With a careful cheer;
The tears out of his eyen ran,
And fell down by his leer.
They brought him unto the lodge door:
When Robin 'gan him see,
Full courteously did off his hood,
And set him on his knee.
"Welcome, Sir Knight!" then said Robin,
"Welcome thou art to me;
I have abide you fasting, Sir,
All these hours three!"
Then answered the gentle Knight
With words fair and free,
"God thee save, good Robin!
And all thy fair meiny!"
They washed together, and wiped both;
And set till their dinner:
Bread and wine they had enough,
And nombles of the deer;
Swans and pheasants they had full good,
And fowls of the rivèr.
There failed never so little a bird
That ever was bred on brere.
"Do gladly, Sir Knight!" said Robin.
"Grammercy, Sir!" said he,
"Such a dinner had I not
Of all these weekes three:
If I come again, Robin,
Here by this country,
As good a dinner, I shall thee make
As thou hast made to me!"
"Grammercy, Knight!" said Robin,
"My dinner when I have
I was never so greedy, by dear-worthy God!
My dinner for to crave:
But pay ere ye wend!" said Robin;
"Methinketh it is good right,
It was never the manner, by dear-worthy God!
A yeoman pay for a Knight!"
"I have nought in my coffers," said the Knight,
"That I may proffer, for shame!"
"Little John! go look!" said Robin Hood,
"Ne let not, for no blame,
Tell me truth!" said Robin,
"So God have part of thee!"
"I have no more but ten shillings," said the Knight,
"So God have part of me!"
"If thou have no more," said Robin,
"I will not one penny!
And if thou have need of any more;
More shall I lend thee!
Go now forth, Little John,
The truth, tell thou me!
If there be no more but ten shillings,
Not one penny that I see!"
Little John spread down his mantle
Full fair upon the ground;
And there he found, in the Knight's coffer,
But even half a pound.
Little John let it lie full still,
And went to his master full low.
"What tidings, John?" said Robin.
"Sir, the Knight is true enow!"
"Fill of the best wine!" said Robin,
"The Knight shall begin!
Much wonder thinketh me
Thy clothing is so thin!
Tell me one word," said Robin,
"And counsel shall it be:
I trow thou wert made a Knight, of force,
Or else of yeomanry!
Or else thou hast been a sorry husband
And lived in stroke and strife,
And okerer or else a lecher," said Robin,
"With wrong hast thou led thy life!"
"I am none of them," said the Knight,
"By God that made me!
A hundred winters herebefore,
My ancestors Knights have be
But oft it hath befallen, Robin!
A man hath been disgrate,
But God that sitteth in heaven above,
May amend his state!
Within this two year, Robin!" he said,
"(My neighbours well it know!)
Four hundred pounds of good money
Full well then might I spend.
Now, have I no goods," said the Knight;
"God hath shapen such an end,—
But my children and my wife,
Till God it may amend!"
"In what manner," said Robin,
"Hast thou lost thy riches?"
"For my great folly," he said,
"And for my kindness!
I had a son, forsooth, Robin!
That should have been my heir:
When he was twenty winters old,
In field would joust full fair.
He slew a Knight of Lancashire
And a Squire bold.
For to save him in his right
My goods be set and sold,
My lands be set to wed, Robin!
Until a certain day
To a rich Abbot here besides,
Of Saint Mary's Abbey."
"What is the sum?" said Robin;
"Truth then tell thou me!"
"Sir," he said, "four hundred pounds,
The Abbot told it to me!"
"Now, and thou lose thy land!" said Robin,
"What shall 'fall of thee?"
"Hastily I will me busk," said the Knight,
"Over the salt sea,
And see where Christ was quick and dead
On the Mount of Calvary!
Farewell, friend! and have good day!
It may not better be!"
Tears fell out of his eyen two,
He would have gone his way.
"Farewell, friends, and have good day!
I ne have more to pay!"
"Where be thy friends?" said Robin.
"Sir! never one will know me!
While I was rich enough at home
Great boast then would they blow;
And now they run away from me
As beasts in a row,
They take no more heed of me
Than they me never saw!"
For ruth then wept Little John,
Scathelock and Much also.
"Fill of the best wine!" said Robin,
"For here is a simple cheer.
Hast thou any friends," said Robin,
"The borrows that will be?"
"I have none!" then said the Knight,
"But God that died on the tree!"
"Do way thy japes!" said Robin,
"Thereof will I right none!
Weenest thou I will have God to borrow,
Peter, Paul, or John?
Nay, by Him that me made,
And shaped both sun and moon!
Find a better borrow," said Robin,
"Or money gettest thou none!"
"I have none other!" said the Knight,
"The sooth for to say,
But if it be Our dear Lady
She failed me never or this day!"
"By dear worthy God!" said Robin,
"To seek all England through,
Yet found I never to my pay
A much better borrow!
Come now forth, Little John!
And go to my treasure!
And bring me four hundred pound,
And look that it well told be!"
Forth then went Little John
And Scathelock went before,
He told out four hundred pound
By eighteen [? eight and twenty] score.
"Is this well told?" say Little Much."
John said, "What grieveth thee?
It is alms to help a gentle Knight
That is fallen in poverty!"
"Master!" then said Little John,
"His clothing is full thin!
Ye must give the Knight a livery
To lap his body therein:
For ye have scarlet and green, Master!
And many a rich array;
There is no merchant in merry England
So rich, I dare well say."
"Take him three yards of every colour,
And look it well meeted be!"
Little John took none other measure
But his bow tree;
And of every handful that he met
He leaped over feet three.
"What devilkins draper!" said Little Much,
"Thinkst thou to be?"
Scathelock stood full still, and laughed,
And said "By God Almight!
John may give him the better measure,
For it cost him but light!"
"Master!" said Little John,
All unto Robin Hood,
"Ye must give the Knight an horse
To lead home all this good."
"Take him a grey courser!" said Robin,
"And a saddle new!
He is Our Lady's Messenger;
God leve that he be true!"
"And a good palfrey," said Little Much,
"To maintain him in his right!"
"And a pair of boots," said Scathelock,
"For he is a gentle Knight!"
"What shalt thou give him, Little John?" said Robin,
"Sir; a pair of gilt spurs clean,
To pray for all this company;
God bring him out of teen!"
"When shall my day be," said the Knight,
"Sir! and your will be?"
"This day twelvemonth!" said Robin,
"Under this green-wood tree.
It were great shame," said Robin,
"A Knight alone to ride;
Without Squire, yeoman, or page,
To walk by his side!
I shall thee lend, Little John, my man;
For he shall be thy knave!
In a yeoman's stead, he may thee stand,
If thou great need have!"

The second fytte.

ow is the Knight went on his way,
This game him thought full good,
When he looked on Bernysdale,
He blessèd Robin Hood:
And when he bethought on Bernysdale,
On Scathelock, Much, and John;
He blessed them for the best company
That ever he in come.
Then spake that gentle Knight,
To Little John 'gan he say,
"To-morrow, I must to York town,
To Saint Mary's Abbey,
And to the Abbot of that place
Four hundred pound I must pay:
And but I be there upon this night
My land is lost for aye!"
The Abbot said to his Convent,
There he stood on ground:
"This day twelve months came there a Knight,
And borrowed four hundred pound.
[He borrowed four hundred pound]
Upon his land and fee;
But he come this ilk day
Disherited shall he be!"
"It is full early!" said the Prior,
"The day is not yet far gone!
I had lever to pay an hundred pound
And lay [it] down anon.
The Knight is far beyond the sea
In England is his right,
And suffereth hunger and cold
And many a sorry night:
It were great pity," said the Prior,
"So to have his land:
And ye be so light of your conscience
Ye do to him much wrong!"
"Thou art ever in my beard," said the Abbot;
"By God and Saint Richard!"
With that came in, a fat-headed monk,
The High Cellarer.
"He is dead or hanged!" said the Monk,
"By God that bought me dear!
And we shall have to spend in this place,
Four hundred pounds by year!"
The Abbot and High Cellarer
Start forth full bold:
The Justice of England,
The Abbot there did hold.
The High Justice, and many mo,
Had taken into their hand
Wholly all the Knight's debt,
To put that Knight to wrong.
They deemed the Knight wonder sore
The Abbot and his meiny,
But he come this ilk day
Disherited shall he be.
"He will not come yet," said the Justice,
"I dare well undertake!"
But in sorrow time for them all,
The Knight came to the gate.
Then bespake that gentle Knight
Until his meiny,
"Now, put on your simple weeds
That ye brought from the sea!"
[They put on their simple weeds,]
They came to the gates anon,
The Porter was ready himself,
And welcomed them everych one.
"Welcome, Sir Knight!" said the Porter;
"My Lord, to meat is he;
And so is many a gentleman
For the love of thee!"
The Porter swore a full great oath
"By God that made me!
Here be the best coresed horse
That ever yet saw I me!
Lead them into the stable!" he said,
"That easèd might they be!"
"They shall not come therein!" said the Knight,
"By God that died on a tree!"
Lords were to meat yset
In that Abbot's hall:
The Knight went forth, and kneeled down,
And salued them, great and small.
"Do gladly, Sir Abbot!" said the Knight,
"I am come to hold my day!"
The first word the Abbot spake,
"Hast thou brought my pay?"
"Not one penny!" said the Knight,
"By God that makèd me!"
"Thou art a shrewd debtor!" said the Abbot;
"Sir Justice, drink to me!
What doest thou here," said the Abbot,
"But thou hadst brought thy pay?"
"For God!" then said the Knight,
"To pray of a longer day!"
"Thy day is broke!" said the Justice;
"Land gettest thou none!"
"Now, good Sir Justice! be my friend!
And fend me of my fone!"
"I am hold with the Abbot!" said the Justice,
"Both with cloth and fee!"
"Now, good Sir Sheriff! be my friend!"
"Nay, for God!" said he.
"Now, good Sir Abbot! be my friend!
For thy courtesy;
And hold my lands in thy hand
Till I have made thee gree:
And I will be thy true servant
And truly serve thee
Till ye have four hundred pounds
Of money good and free."
The Abbot sware a full great oath,
"By God that died on a tree!
Get thee land where thou mayest;
For thou gettest none of me!"
"By dear worthy God," then said the Knight,
"That all this world wrought!
But I have my land again,
Full dear it shall be bought!
God that was of Maiden born,
Leave us well to speed!
For it is good to assay a friend
Or that a man have need!"
The Abbot loathly on him 'gan call:
And villainously him 'gan look:
"Out," he said, "thou false Knight!
Speed thee out of my hall!"
"Thou liest!" then said the gentle Knight,
"Abbot in thy hall!
False Knight was I never,
By God that made us all!"
Up then stood that gentle Knight:
To the Abbot, said he,
"To suffer a Knight to kneel so long,
Thou canst no courtesy!
In jousts and in tournament
Full far then have I be;
And put myself as far in press
As any that ever I see."
"What will ye give more," said the Justice,
"And the Knight shall make a release?
And else I dare safely swear
Ye hold never your land in peace!"
"An hundred pounds!" said the Abbot.
The Justice said, "Give him two!"
"Nay, by God!" said the Knight,
"Yet get ye it not so!
Though ye would give a thousand more,
Yet wert thou never the near!
Shalt there never be mine heir,
Abbot! Justice! ne Friar!"
He started him to a board anon,
Till a table round,
And there he shook out of a bag
Even four hundred pound.
"Have here thy gold, Sir Abbot!" said the Knight,
"Which that thou lentest me!
Hadst thou been courteous at my coming,
Rewarded shouldst thou have be!"
The Abbot sat still, and eat no more,
For all his royal fare:
He cast his head on his shoulder,
And fast began to stare.
"Take me my gold again!" said the Abbot,
"Sir Justice, that I took thee!"
"Not a penny!" said the Justice,
"By God that died on the tree!"
"Sir Abbot, and ye Men of Law!
Now have I held my day!
Now shall I have my land again
For ought that you can say!"
The Knight started out of the door,
Away was all his care!
And on he put his good clothing,
The other he left there.
He went him forth full merry singing
As men have told in tale,
His Lady met him at the gate
At home in Verysdale.
"Welcome, my Lord!" said his Lady,
"Sir, lost is all your good?"
"Be merry, Dame!" said the Knight,
"And pray for Robin Hood!
That ever his soul be in bliss;
He helped me out of my teen.
Ne had not been his kindness,
Beggars had we been!
The Abbot and I accorded be;
He is served of his pay!
The good yeoman lent it me,
As I came by the way."
This Knight then dwelled fair at home,
The sooth for to say,
Till he had got four hundred pounds
All ready for to pay.
He purveyed him an hundred bows,
The strings well dight;
An hundred sheafs of arrows good,
The heads burnished full bright:
And every arrow an ell long
With peacock well ydight;
Ynocked all with white silver,
It was a seemly sight.
He purveyed him an hundred men,
Well harnessed in that stead,
And himself in that same set
And clothed in white and red.
He bare a lancegay in his hand,
And a man led his mail,
And riden with a light song
Unto Bernysdale.
But at Wentbridge there was a wrestling,
And there tarried was he:
And there was all the best yeomen
Of all the West country.
A full fair game there was up set;
A white bull up i-pight;
A great courser, with saddle and bridle
With gold burnished full bright;
A pair of gloves, a red gold ring,
A pipe of wine, in fay:
What man beareth him best, Iwis
The prize shall bear away.
There was a yeoman in that place,
And best worthy was he.
And for he was far and fremd bestead
Yslain he should have be.
The Knight had ruth of his yeoman
In place where that he stood:
He said, "The yeoman should have no harm,
For love of Robin Hood!"
The Knight pressed into the place,
An hundred followed him free,
With bows bent and arrows sharp
For to shend that company.
They shouldered all and made him room
To wit what he would say;
He took the yeoman by the hand
And gave him all the play;
He gave him five marks for his wine,
There it laid on the mould:
And bade it should be set abroach,
Drink who so would!
Thus long tarried this gentle Knight
Till that play was done:
So long abode Robin fasting,
Three hours after the noon.

The third fytte.

ithe and listen, Gentlemen!
All that now be here,
Of Little John, that was the Knight's man,
Good mirth ye shall hear.
It was upon a merry day
That young men would go shoot,
Little John fetched his bow anon
And said he "would them meet."
Three times, Little John shot about,
And always he sleste [slit] the wand:
The proud Sheriff of Nottingham
By the Marks 'gan stand.
The Sheriff swore a full great oath,
"By Him that died on the tree!
This man is the best archer
That yet saw I me!
Say me now, wight young man!
What is now thy name?
In what country wert thou born?
And where is thy woning wane?"
"In Holderness, I was born,
I-wis, all of my dame:
Men call me Reynold Greenleaf,
When I am at home."
"Say me, Reynold Greenleaf!
Wilt thou dwell with me?
And every year, I will thee give
Twenty marks to thy fee!"
"I have a Master," said Little John,
"A courteous Knight is he;
May ye get leave of him, the better may it be."
The Sheriff got Little John
Twelve months of the Knight;
Therefore he gave him right anon
A good horse and a wight.
Now is Little John a Sheriff's man,
God give us well to speed!
But always thought Little John
To quite him well his meed.
"Now, so God me help!" said Little John,
"And be my true lewte!
I shall be the worst servant to him
That ever yet had he!"
It befel upon a Wednesday,
The Sheriff on hunting was gone,
And Little John lay in his bed, and was forgot at home,
Therefore he was fasting till it was past the noon.
"Good Sir Steward, I pray thee,
Give me to dine!" said Little John.
"It is long for Greenleaf, fasting so long to be.
Therefore I pray thee, Steward, my dinner give thou me!"
"Shalt thou never eat nor drink," said the Steward,
"Till my lord be come to town!"
"I make my avow to God," said Little John
"I had lever to crack thy crown!"
The Butler was full uncourteous,
There he stood on floor;
He started to the buttery, and shut fast the door.
Little John gave the Butler such a rap
His back went nigh in two
Though he lived an hundred winters, the worse he should go.
He spurned the door with his foot, it went up well and fine!
And there he made a large 'livery
Both of ale and wine.
"Sir, if ye will not dine," said Little John,
"I shall give you to drink!
And though ye live an hundred winters,
On Little John ye shall think!"
Little John eat and little John drank, the while he would.
The Sheriff had in his kitchen a Cook,
A stout man and a bold,
"I make mine avow to God!" said the Cook,
"Thou art a shrewd hind,
In any household to dwell! for to ask thus to dine!"
And there he lent Little John
Good strokes three.
"I make mine avow," said Little John,
"These strokes liketh well.
Thou art a bold man and a hardy,
And so thinketh me!
And ere I pass from this place
Assayed better shalt thou be!"
Little John drew a good sword,
The Cook took another in hand;
They thought nothing for to flee,
But stiffly for to stand.
There they fought sore together,
Two mile way and more;
Might neither other harm do
The maintenance of an hour.
"I make mine avow to God," said Little John,
"And by my true lewte!
Thou art one of the best swordsmen
That ever yet saw I me,
Couldst thou shoot as well in a bow,
To green wood, thou shouldst with me!
And two times in the year, thy clothing
Ychanged should be!
And every year of Robin Hood,
Twenty marks to thy fee!"
"Put up thy sword," said the Cook,
"And fellows will we be!"
Then he fetch to Little John,
The nombles of a doe,
Good bread, and full good wine.
They eat and drank thereto.
And when they had drunken well,
Their troths together they plight,
That they would be with Robin
That ilk same night.
They did them to the treasure house
As fast as they might go;
The locks that were good steel,
They brake them everych one.
They took away the silver vessels,
And all that they might get;
Piece, mazers, ne spoons,
Would they none forget.
Also they took the good pence,
Three hundred pounds and more:
And did them strait to Robin Hood
Under the green-wood hoar.
"God thee save, my dear master!
And Christ thee save and see!"
And then said Robin to Little John,
"Welcome might thou be!
And also that fair yeoman,
Thou bringest there with thee!
What tidings from Nottingham,
Little John? tell thou me!"
"Well thee greeteth the proud Sheriff!
And send thee here by me,
His Cook and his silver vessels,
And three hundred pounds and three!"
"I make mine avow to God!" said Robin,
"And to the Trinity!
It was never by his good-will
This good is come to me!"
Little John him there bethought
On a shrewd wile. Five miles in the forest he ran.
Him happed at his will!
Then he met the proud Sheriff
Hunting with hounds and horn.
Little John could his courtesy,
And kneeled him beforne.
"God thee save, my dear Master!
And Christ thee save and see!"
"Reynold Greenleaf!" said the Sheriff,
"Where hast thou now be?"
"I have been in this forest;
A fair sight can I see;
It was one of the fairest sights
That ever yet saw I me!
Yonder I see a right fair hart,
His colour is of green!
Seven score of deer upon a herd,
Be with him all bedeen,
His tynde are so sharp, Master,
Of sixty and well mo,
That I durst not shoot for dread,
Lest they would me slo!"
"I make mine avow to God!" said the Sheriff,
"That sight would I fain see!"
"Busk you thitherward, my dear Master
Anon, and wend with me!"
The Sheriff rode, and Little John,
Of foot he was full smart;
And when they came afore Robin,
"Lo, here is the master Hart!"
Still stood the proud Sheriff:
A sorry man was he!
"Woe the worth, Reynold Greenleaf,
Thou hast betrayed me!"
"I make mine avow to God," said Little John,
"Master, ye be to blame!
I was mis-served of my dinner,
When I was with you at home!"
Soon he was to supper set,
And served with silver white:
And when the Sheriff saw his vessel,
For sorrow, he might not eat!
"Make good cheer," said Robin Hood,
"Sheriff! for charity!
And for the love of Little John
Thy life is granted to thee!"
When they had supped well,
The day was all agone,
Robin commanded Little John
To draw off his hosen and his shoon,
His kirtle and his courtepy,
That was furred well fine;
And took him a green mantle,
To lap his body therein.
Robin commanded his wight young men,
Under the green-wood tree,
They shall lay in that same suit,
That the Sheriff might them see.
All night lay that proud Sheriff,
In his breech and in his shirt:
No wonder it was in green wood
Though his sides do smart.
"Make glad cheer," said Robin Hood,
"Sheriff, for charity!
For this is our order, I-wis,
Under the green-wood tree!"
"This is harder order," said the Sheriff,
"Than any Anchor or Frere!
For all the gold in merry England,
I would not long dwell here!"
"All these twelve months," said Robin,
"Thou shalt dwell with me!
I shall thee teach, proud Sheriff,
An outlaw for to be!"
"Ere I here another night lie," said the Sheriff,
"Robin, now I pray thee!
Smite off my head, rather to-morn,
And I forgive it thee!
Let me go then," said the Sheriff,
"For saint charity!
And I will be thy best friend,
That yet had ye!"
"Thou shalt swear me an oath!" said Robin,
"On my bright brand,
Thou shalt never await me scathe!
By water ne by land!
And if thou find any of my men,
By night, or by day,
Upon thine oath, thou shalt swear
To help them that thou may!"
Now has the Sheriff ysworn this oath,
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of green wood,
As ever was heap of stone.

The fourth fytte.

he Sheriff dwelled in Nottingham,
He was fain that he was gone,
And Robin and his merry men
Went to wood anon.
"Go we to dinner?" said Little John.
Robin Hood said, "Nay!
For I dread our Lady be wroth with me;
For she [has] sent me not my pay!"
"Have no doubt, Master!" said Little John.
"Yet is not the sun not at rest:
For I dare say and safely swear
The Knight is true and trust!"
"Take thy bow in thy hand!" said Robin.
"Let Much wend with thee!
And so shall William Scathelock;
And no man abide with me!
And walk up under the Sayles,
And to Watling Street;
And wait after such unketh guest,
Upchance ye may them meet.
Whether he be messenger,
Or a man that mirths can;
Of my good, he shall have some
If he be a poor man!"
Forth then started Little John,
Half in tray or teen,
And girded him with a full good sword
Under a mantle of green.
They went up to the Sayles,
These yeomen all three,
They looked East, they looked West,
They might no man see.
But as they looked in Bernysdale,
By the highway
Then were they 'ware of two black monks,
Each on a good palfrey.
Then bespake Little John,
To Much he 'gan say:
"I dare lay my life to wed
These monks have brought our pay!"
"Make glad cheer," said Little John,
"And frese our bows of yew!
And look your hearts be sicker and sad,
Your strings trusty and true!"
The monk had fifty and two [men]
And seven somers full strong,
There rideth no Bishop in this land
So royally I understand.
"Brethren," said Little John,
"Here are no more but we three;
But we bring them to dinner,
Our Master, dare we not see!"
"Bend your bows!" said Little John,
"Make all yon press to stand!
The foremost monk, his life and his death,
Are closed in my hand.
Abide, churl Monk!" said Little John,
"No further that thou go,
If thou dost, by dear-worthy God!
Thy death is in my hand!
And evil thrift on thy head!" said Little John,
"Right under thy hat's band:
For thou hast made our Master wroth,
He is fasting so long!"
"Who is your Master?" said the Monk.
Little John said, "Robin Hood!"
"He is a strong thief!" said the Monk;
"Of him heard I never good!"
"Thou liest then!" said Little John,
"And that shall rue thee!
He is a yeoman of the forest;
To dine, he hath bidden thee!"
Much was ready with a bolt,
Readily and anon,
He set the Monk tofore the breast
To the ground that he can gone.
Of fifty-two wight young yeomen
There abode not one;
Save a little page and a groom
To lead the somers with Little John.
They brought the Monk to the lodge door,
Whether he were loth or lief,
For to speak with Robin Hood,
Maugre in their teeth.
Robin did adown his hood,
The Monk when that he see,
The Monk who was not so courteous
His hood then let he be.
"He is a churl, Master! by dear-worthy God!"
Then said Little John.
"Thereof no force!" said Robin,
"For courtesy can he none!
How many men," said Robin,
"Had this Monk, John?"
"Fifty and two when that we met;
But many of them be gone."
"Let blow a horn!" said Robin,
"That fellowship may us know!"
Seven score of wight yeomen
Came pricking on a row,
And everych of them a good mantle
Of scarlet and of ray,
All they came to good Robin
To wit what he would say.
They made the Monk to wash and wipe,
And sit at his dinner,
Robin Hood and Little John
They served him both in-fere.
"Do gladly, Monk!" said Robin.
"Grammercy, Sir!" said he.
"Where is your Abbey, when ye are at home;
And who is your avow?"
"St. Mary's Abbey," said the Monk,
"Though I be simple here."
"In what office?" said Robin.
"Sir! the High Cellarer."
"Ye be the more welcome," said Robin.
"So ever might I thee."
"Fill of the best wine!" said Robin,
"This Monk shall drink to me!
But I have great marvel," said Robin,
"Of all this long day,
I dread our Lady be wroth with me,
She sent me not my pay!"
"Have no doubt, Master!" said Little John,
"Ye have no need, I say:
This Monk, it hath brought, I dare well swear!
For he is of her Abbey."
"And She was a borrow," said Robin,
"Between a Knight and me,
Of a little money that I him lent
Under the green-wood tree;
And if thou hast that silver ybrought,
I pray thee let me see,
And I shall help thee eftsoons
If thou have need to me!"
The Monk swore a full great oath,
With a sorry cheer,
"Of the borrowhood thou speakest to me
Heard I never ere!"
"I make mine avow to God!" said Robin,
"Monk, thou art to blame!
For God is held a righteous man,
And so is his dame.
Thou toldest with thine own tongue
Thou mayst not say 'Nay!'
How thou art her servant,
And servest her every day:
And thou art made her messenger,
My money for to pay.
Therefore I can the more thanks,
Thou art come to thy day!
What is in your coffers?" said Robin;
"True, then, tell thou me?"
"Sir!" he said, "twenty marks!
Also might I thee!"
"If there be no more," said Robin,
"I will not one penny.
If thou hast myster of any more,
Sir, more I shall lend to thee!
And if I find more," said Robin,
"Iwis, thou shalt it forgo;
For of thy spending silver, Monk!
Thereof will I right none."
"Go now forth, Little John,
And the truth, tell thou me!
If there be no more but twenty marks
No penny [of] that I see!"
Little John spread his mantle down,
As he had done before,
And he told out of the Monk's mail
Eight hundred pound and more.
Little John let it lie full still,
And went to his Master in haste;
"Sir!" he said, "the Monk is true enough;
Our Lady hath doubled your cast!"
"I make mine avow to God!" said Robin,
"Monk, what told I thee!
Our Lady is the truest woman
That ever yet found I me!
By dear worthy God!" said Robin,
"To seek all England through;
Yet found I never to my pay,
A much better borrow.
Fill of the best wine, and do him drink!" said Robin;
"And greet well thy Lady hend;
And if she have need to Robin Hood,
A friend she shall him find:
And if she needeth any more silver,
Come thou again to me!
And, by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such three!"
The Monk was going to London ward,
There to hold great Mote,
The Knight that rode so high on horse
To bring him under foot.
"Whither be ye away?" said Robin.
"Sir, to manors in this land,
To reckon with our Reeves
That have done much wrong."
"Come now forth, Little John!
And hearken to my tale!
A better yeoman, I know none
To seek a Monk's mail.
How much is in yonder other corser?" said Robin,
"The sooth must we see!"
"By our Lady!" then said the Monk,
"That were no courtesy;
To bid a man to dinner,
And sith him beat and bind!"
"It is our old manner!" said Robin,
"To leave but little behind."
The Monk took the horse with spur,
No longer would he abide!
"Ask to drink!" then said Robin,
"Or that ye further ride?"
"Nay, for God!" said the Monk,
"Me rueth I came so near!
For better cheap, I might have dined
In Blyth or in Doncaster!"
"Greet well, your Abbot!" said Robin,
"And your Prior, I you pray!
And bid him send me such a Monk
To dinner every day!"
Now let we that Monk be still;
And speak we of the Knight!
Yet he came to hold his day
While that it was light.
He did him strait to Bernysdale,
Under the green-wood tree.
And he found there Robin Hood
And all his merry meiny.
The Knight light down off his good palfrey.
Robin when he 'gan see;
So courteously he did adown his hood
And set him on his knee.
"God thee save, Robin Hood,
And all this company!"
"Welcome, be thou, gentle Knight!
And right welcome to me!"
Then bespake him Robin Hood,
To that Knight so free,
"What need driveth thee to green wood?
I pray thee, Sir Knight, tell me!
And welcome be, thou gentle Knight!
Why hast thou been so long?"
"For the Abbot and high Justice
Would have had my land?"
"Hast thou thy land again?" said Robin,
"Truth then tell thou me!"
"Yea, for God!" said the Knight,
"And that I thank God and thee!
But take not a grief," said the Knight,
"That I have been so long,
I came by a wrestling,
And there I helped a poor yeoman,
Who with wrong was put behind."
"Nay, for God!" said Robin,
"Sir Knight, that thank I thee!
What man that helpeth a good yeoman,
His friend then will I be."
"Have here four hundred pounds!" then said the Knight
"The which ye lent me,
And here is also twenty marks for your courtesy!"
"Nay, for God!" then said Robin,
"Thou brook it well for aye;
For our Lady, by her Cellarer,
Hath sent to me my pay!
And if I took it twice,
A shame it were to me!
But truly, gentle Knight,
Welcome art thou to me!"
When Robin had told his tale,
He laughed and had good cheer,
"By my troth!" then said the Knight,
"Your money is ready here!"
"Brook it well!" said Robin,
"Thou gentle Knight so free!
And welcome be thou, gentle Knight,
Under my trystel tree!
But what shall these bows do?" said Robin,
"And these arrows yfeathered free?"
"By God!" then said the Knight,
"A poor present to thee!"
"Come now forth, Little John,
And go to my treasure,
And bring me there four hundred pounds
The Monk overtold it me.
Have here four hundred pounds,
Thou gentle Knight and true!
And buy horse and harness good,
And gilt thy spurs all new!
And if thou fail any spending,
Come to Robin Hood!
And, by my troth, thou shalt none fail
The whiles I have any good;
And brook well thy four hundred pounds
Which I lent to thee!
And make thyself no more so bare;
By the counsel of me."
Thus then helped him, good Robin,
The Knight all of his care:
God that sits in heaven high
Grant us well to fare!

The fifth fytte.

ow hath the Knight his leave ytake,
And went him on his way.
Robin Hood and his merry men
Dwelled still full many a day.
Lithe and listen, Gentlemen!
And hearken what I shall say,
How the proud Sheriff of Nottingham
Did cry a full fair Play,
That all the best archers of the North
Should come upon a day;
And he that shooteth alder best,
The game shall bear away!
He that shooteth alder best
Furthest, fair, and low,
At a pair of finely butts,
Under the green-wood shaw,
A right good arrow he shall have,
The shaft of silver white,
The head and feathers of rich red gold,
In England is none like.
This then heard good Robin,
Under his trystel tree.
"Make you ready, ye wight young men,
That shooting will I see!
Busk you, my merry young men,
Ye shall go with me!
And I will wit the Sheriff's faith;
True and if be he!"
When they had their bows ybent,
Their tackles feathered free,
Seven score of wight young men
Stood by Robin's knee.
When they came to Nottingham,
The butts were fair and long,
Many were the bold archers
That shooted with bowès strong.
"There shall but six shoot with me,
The others shall keep my head,
And stand with good bows bent
That I be not deceived."
The fourth outlaw, his bow 'gan bend,
And that was Robin Hood:
And that beheld the proud Sheriff,
All by the butt he stood.
Thrice Robin shot about,
And always sliced the wand;
And so did good "Gilbert
With the white hand."
Little John and good Scathelock
Were archers good and free:
Little Much and good Reynold
The worst would they not be!
When they had shot about,
These archers fair and good:
Ever more was the best,
Forsooth, Robin Hood.
Him was delivered the good arrow,
For best worthy was he:
He took the gift so courteously;
To green wood would he!
They cried out on Robin Hood,
And great horns 'gan they blow!
"Woe worth the treason!" said Robin;
"Full evil thou art to know!
And woe be thou, thou proud Sheriff!
Thus gladding thy guest,
Otherwise thou behote me
In yonder wild forest,
But had I thee in green wood,
Under my trystel tree,
Thou shouldst leave me a better wed,
Than thy true lewte."
Full many a bow there was bent,
And arrows let they glide!
Many a kirtle there was rent,
And hurt many a side!
The outlaws' shot was so strong
That no man might them drive,
And the proud Sheriff's men
They fled away full blyve.
Robin saw the [am]bushment to broke,
In green wood he would have been;
Many an arrow there was shot
Among that company.
Little John was hurt full sore,
With an arrow in his knee,
That he might neither go nor ride:
It was full great pity!
"Master!" then said Little John,
"If ever thou lovest me;
And for that ilk Lord's love
That died upon a tree!
And for the meeds of my service,
That I have servèd thee:
Let never the proud Sheriff
Alive now find me!
But take out thy brown sword
And smite all off my head!
And give me wounds dead and wide,
No life on me be left!"
"I would not that," said Robin,
"John! that thou be slo,
For all the gold in merry England,
Though it lay now on a row!"
"God forbid!" said Little Much,
"That dièd on a tree!
That thou shouldst, Little John!
'Part our company!"
Up he took him on his back,
And bare him well nigh a mile:
Many a time, he laid him down,
And shot another while.
Then was there a fair Castle
A little within the wood;
Double ditched it was about,
And wallèd, by the rood:
And there dwelt that gentle Knight,
Sir Richard at the Lee,
That Robin had lent his good
Under the green-wood tree.
In he took good Robin
And all his company.
"Welcome be thou, Robin Hood!
Welcome art thou, to me!
And much thank thee of thy comfort
And of thy courtesy,
And of thy great kindness
Under the green-wood tree!
I love no man, in all this world
So much as I do thee!
For all the proud Sheriff of Nottingham;
Right here shalt thou be!
Shut the gates, and draw the bridge;
And let no man come in!
And arm you well, and make you ready!
And to the wall ye win!
For one thing, Robin! I thee behote
I swear by St. Quintin!
These twelve days thou wonest with me,
To sup, eat, and dine!"
Boards were laid and cloths spread
Readily and anon:
Robin Hood and his merry men
To meat 'gan they gone.

The sixth fytte.

ithe and listen, Gentlemen!
And hearken unto your song!
How the proud Sheriff of Nottingham
And men of armès strong
Full fast came to the High Sheriff
The country up to rout,
And they beset the Knight's Castle,
The walls all about.
The proud Sheriff loud 'gan cry
And said, "Thou traitor Knight!
Thou keepest here the King's enemy!
Against the laws and right!"
"Sir, I will avow that I have done
The deeds that here be dight,
Upon all the lands that I have,
As I am a true Knight,
Wend forth, Sirs, on your way;
And do no more to me,
Till ye wit our King's will
What he will say to thee!"
The Sheriff thus, had his answer
Without any leasing.
Forth he yode to London town,
All for to tell the King.
There he told them of that Knight,
And eke of Robin Hood;
And also of the bold archers,
That noble were and good.
He would avow that he had done
To maintain the outlaws strong;
He would be Lord, and set you at nought
In all the North land.
"I will be at Nottingham," said the King,
"Within this fortnight!
And take I will, Robin Hood;
And so I will that Knight!
Go now home, Sheriff," said the King,
"And do as I thee bid.
And ordain good archers ynow
Of all the wide country!"
The Sheriff had his leave ytake;
And went him on his way.
And Robin Hood to green wood,
Upon a certain day,
And Little John was whole of the arrow
That shot was in his knee;
And did him straight to Robin Hood
Under the green-wood tree.
Robin Hood walked in the forest
Under the leavès green,
The proud Sheriff of Nottingham,
Thereof he had great teen.
The Sheriff there failed of Robin Hood
He might not have his prey.
Then he awaited this gentle Knight,
Both by night and by day.
Ever he awaited that gentle Knight,
Sir Richard at the Lee,
As he went on hawking by the river side
And let his hawks flee;
Took he there, this gentle Knight,
With men of armès strong,
And led him home to Nottingham ward
Ybound both foot and hand.
The Sheriff swore a full great oath,
By Him that died on rood,
He had lever than a hundred pound
That he had Robin Hood.
This heard the Knight's wife
A fair Lady and free,
She set her on a good palfrey;
To green wood anon rode she.
When she came to the forest,
Under the green-wood tree,
Found she there Robin Hood
And all his fair meiny.
"God [save] thee, good Robin!
And all thy company,
For our dear Lady's love
A boon, grant thou me!
Let thou never my wedded Lord
Shamely yslain be!
He is fast ybound to Nottingham ward.
For the love of thee!"
Anon then said good Robin,
To that Lady free:
"What man hath your Lord ytake?"
"For sooth, as I thee say,
He is not yet three miles
Passèd on your way."
Up then started good Robin,
As a man that had been wood;
"Busk you, my merry young men,
For Him that died on a rood!
And he that this sorrow forsaketh,
By Him that died on a tree!
Shall he never in green wood be,
Nor longer dwell with me!"
Soon there were good bows ybent,
Mo than seven score;
Hedge ne ditch spare they none
That were them before.
"I make mine avow to God," said Robin,
"The Knight would I fain see;
And if I may him take,
Yquit then shall it be!"
And when they came to Nottingham
They walkèd in the street,
And with the proud Sheriff ywis
Soon gan they meet.
"Abide, thou proud Sheriff!" he said,
"Abide, and speak with me!
Of some tidings of our King
I would fain hear of thee!
This seven year, by dear-worthy God!
Ne yede I so fast on foot;
I make mine avow to God, thou proud Sheriff!
That it is not for thy good."
Robin bent a good bow,
An arrow he drew at his will;
He hit so the proud Sheriff,
Upon the ground he lay full still:
And or he might up arise,
On his feet to stand;
He smote off the Sheriff's head,
With his bright brand.
"Lie thou there, thou proud Sheriff!
Evil might thou thrive!
There might no man to thee trust,
The whiles thou wert alive!"
His men drew out their bright swords,
That were so sharp and keen,
And laid on the Sheriff's men
And drived them down bydene.
Robin started to that Knight,
And cut a two his bond;
And took him in his hand a bow,
And bade him by him stand.
"Leave thy horse thee behind,
And learn for to run!
Thou shalt with me to green wood
Through mire, moss, and fen!
Thou shalt with me to green wood
Without any leasing,
Till that I have got us grace
Of Edward, our comely King."

The seventh fytte.

he King came to Nottingham
With Knights in great array
For to take that gentle Knight
And Robin Hood, if he may.
He asked men of that country
After Robin Hood,
And after that gentle Knight
That was so bold and stout.
When they had told him the case,
Our King understood their tale
And seizèd in his hand
The Knight's land all.
All the pass of Lancashire
He went both far and near;
Till he came to Plom[p]ton Park
He failed many of his deer.
There our King was wont to see
Herdès many a one,
He could unneath find one deer
That bare any good horn.
The King was wondrous wroth withal,
And swore, "By the Trinity!
I would I had Robin Hood!
With eyen I might him see!
And he that would smite off the Knight's head,
And bring it to me;
He shall have the Knight's lands
Sir Richard at the Lee.
I give it him with my charter,
And seal it [with] my hand,
To have and hold for evermore
In all merry England."
Then bespake a fair old Knight,
That was true in his fay,
"O my liege Lord the King,
One word I shall you say!
There is no man in this country
May have the Knight's lands
While Robin Hood may ride or gone
And bear a bow in his hands,
That he ne shall lose his head,
That is the best ball in his hood:
Give it to no man, my Lord the King!
That ye will any good!"
Half a year dwelled our comely King
In Nottingham, and well more,
Could he not hear of Robin Hood,
In what country that he were:
But always went good Robin
By halke and eke by hill,
And always slew the King's deer
And welt them at his will.
Then bespake a proud for'ster
That stood by our King's knee,
"If ye will see good Robin
Ye must do after me!
Take five of the best Knights
That be in your lead,
And walk down by yon Abbey
And get you monks' weed!
And I will be your leadsman
And lead you the way!
And or ye come to Nottingham,
Mine head then dare I lay!
That ye shall meet with good Robin,
In life if that he be:
Or ye come to Nottingham
With eyen ye shall him see!"
Full hastily our King was dight,
So were his Knightès five,
Everych of them in monks' weed,
And hasted them thither blithe.
Our King was great above his cowl,
A broad hat on his crown.
Right as he were Abbot like,
They rode up into the town.
Stiff boots our King had on,
For sooth as I you say,
He rode singing to green wood,
The convent was clothed in grey.
His mail horse and his great somers
Followed our King behind,
Till they came to green wood
A mile under the lynde.
There they met with good Robin
Standing on the way,
And so did many a bold archer,
For sooth as I you say.
Robin took the King's horse,
Hastily in that stead:
And said, "Sir Abbot! by your leave;
A while ye must abide!
We be yeoman of this forest,
Under the green-wood tree,
We live by our King's deer,
Under the green-wood tree;
And ye have churches and rents both,
And gold full great plenty:
Give us some of your spending,
For saint charity!"
Then bespake our comely King,
Anon then said he,
"I brought no more to green wood.
But forty pounds with me.
I have lain at Nottingham,
This fortnight with our King;
And spent I have full much good
On many a great Lording:
And I have but forty pounds,
No more than have I me.
But if I had a hundred pounds,
I would give it to thee!"
Robin took the forty pounds,
And departed it in two parts:
Halfendell he gave his merry men,
And bade them merry to be.
Full courteously Robin 'gan say,
"Sir, have this for your spending!
We shall meet another day."
"Grammercy!" then said our King.
"But well thee greeteth Edward our King,
And sent to thee his seal;
And biddeth thee come to Nottingham,
Both to meat and meal!"
He took out the broad targe
And soon he let him see.
Robin could his courtesy,
And set him on his knee.
"I love no man in all the world
So well as I do my King!
Welcome is my Lord's seal!
And monk for thy tiding,
Sir Abbot, for thy tidings,
To-day, thou shalt dine with me!
For the love of my King,
Under my trystel tree."
Forth he led our comely King
Full fair by the hand;
Many a deer there was slain,
And full fast dightand.
Robin took a full great horn,
And loud he 'gan blow,
Seven score of wight young men
Came ready on a row.
All they kneeled on their knee
Full fair before Robin.
The King said, himself until,
And swore, "By Saint Austin!
Here is a wondrous seemly sight!
Methinketh, by God's pine!
His men are more at his bidding
Than my men be at mine."
Full hastily was their dinner ydight,
And thereto 'gan they gone;
They served our King with all their might,
Both Robin and Little John.
Anon before our King was set
The fat venison,
The good white bread, the good red wine,
And thereto the fine ale brown.
"Make good cheer!" said Robin,
"Abbot, for charity!
And for this ilk tiding
Blessèd might thou be!
Now shalt thou see what life we lead,
Or thou hence wend,
That thou may inform our King
When ye together lend."
Up they start all in haste,
Their bows were smartly bent:
Our King was never so sore aghast;
He wended to have been shent!
Two yards there were up set
Thereto 'gan they gang.
"By fifty paces," our King said,
"The marks were too long!"
On every side a rose garland,
They shot under the line.
"Whoso faileth of the rose garland," saith Robin,
"His tackle he shall tine,
And yield it to his Master,
Be it never so fine!
(For no man will I spare,
So drink I ale or wine!)
And bear a buffet on his head
Iwis right all bare."
And all that fell in Robin's lot,
He smote them wondrous sore.
Twice Robin shot about,
And ever he cleaved the wand;
And so did good "Gilbert,
With the good white hand."
Little John and good Scathelock,
For nothing would they spare.
When they failed of the garland
Robin smote them full sore.
At the last shot, that Robin shot
For all his friends' fare;
Yet he failed of the garland
Three fingers and more.
Then bespake good Gilbert,
And thus he 'gan say,
"Master," he said, "your tackle is lost,
Stand forth and take your pay!"
"If it be so," said Robin,
"That may no better be;
Sir Abbot, I deliver thee mine arrow!
I pray thee, Sir, serve thou me!"
"It falleth not for mine order," said our King,
"Robin, by thy leave,
For to smite no good yeoman,
For doubt I should him grieve."
"Smite on boldly," said Robin,
"I give thee large leave!"
Anon our King, with that word,
He folded up his sleeve,
And such a buffet he gave Robin,
To ground he yede full near.
"I make mine avow to God," said Robin,
"Thou art a stalwart frere!
There is pith in thine arm," said Robin,
"I trow thou canst well shoot."
Thus our King and Robin Hood,
Together then they met.
Robin beheld our comely King,
Wistly in the face:
So did Sir Richard at the Lee,
And kneeled down in that place.
And so did all the wild outlaws,
When they see them kneel.
"My Lord, the King of England,
Now I know you well."
"Mercy, then, Robin," said our King,
"Under your trystel tree,
Of thy goodness and thy grace,
For my men and me!"
"Yes, for God!" said Robin,
"and also God me save!
I ask mercy, my Lord the King,
And for my men I crave!"
"Yes, for God!" then said our King,
"And thereto 'sent I me;
With that thou leave the green wood,
And all thy company;
And come home, Sir, to my Court,
And there dwell with me."
"I make mine avow to God!" said Robin,
"And right so shall it be,
I will come to your Court,
Your service for to see!
And bring with me, of my men,
Seven score and three.
But me like well your service,
I come again full soon;
And shoot at the dun deer
As I wont to done."

The eighth fytte.

ast thou any green cloth," said our King,
"That thou wilt sell now to me?"
"Yea, for God!" said Robin,
"Thirty yards and three."
"Robin," said our King,
"Now pray I thee!
Sell me some of that cloth
To me and my meiny."
"Yes, for God!" then said Robin,
"Or else I were a fool!
Another day ye will me clothe,
I trow against the yule."
The King cast off his cowl then,
A green garment he did on,
And every knight also, i-wis,
Another had full soon.
When they were clothed in Lincoln green,
They cast away their gray.
"Now we shall to Nottingham!
All thus," our King 'gan say.
Their bows bent, and forth they went,
Shooting all in-fere
Toward the town of Nottingham,
Outlaws as they were.
Our King and Robin rode together,
For sooth as I you say,
And they shot Pluck-buffet,
As they went by the way.
And many a buffet our King won
Of Robin Hood that day;
And nothing spared good Robin
Our King in his pay.
"So God me help!" said our King,
"Thy game is nought to lere;
I should not get a shot of thee,
Though I shoot all this year!"
All the people of Nottingham,
They stood and beheld,
They saw nothing but mantles of green
That covered all the field:
Then every man to other 'gan say,
"I dread our King be slone;
Come Robin Hood to the town, ywis
In life he left never one!"
Full hastily they began to flee,
Both yeomen and knaves,
And old wives that might evil go
They hippèd on their staves.
The King laughed full fast,
And commanded them again:
When they see our comely King
I-wis they were full fain.
They eat and drank and made them glad,
And sang with notès high.
Then bespake our comely King
To Sir Richard at the Lee:
He gave him there his land again;
A good man he bade him be.
Robin thanked our comely King
And set him on his knee.
Had Robin dwelled in the King's Court
But twelve months and three;
That he had spent an hundred pound,
And all his men's fee.
In every place where Robin came,
Evermore he laid down,
Both for Knights and for Squires
To get him great renown.
By then the year was all agone
He had no man but twain,
Little John and good Scathelock
With him all for to gone.
Robin saw young men shoot
Full far upon a day.
"Alas," then said good Robin,
"My wealth is went away!
Sometime I was an archer good,
A stiff, and eke a strong,
I was counted the best archèr
That was in merry England.
Alas," then said good Robin,
"Alas, and well a wo!
If I dwell longer with the King,
Sorrow will me slo!"
Forth then went Robin Hood,
Till he came to our King:
"My Lord the King of England,
Grant me mine asking!
I made a chapel in Bernysdale,
That seemly is to see:
It is of Mary Magdalene;
And thereto would I be!
I might never in this seven night
No time to sleep ne wink;
Neither all these seven days
Neither eat ne drink:
Me longeth sore to Bernysdale.
I may not be therefro,
Barefoot and woolward I have hight
Thither for to go."
"If it be so," then said our King,
"It may no better be!
Seven nights I give thee leave,
No longer, to dwell from me."
"Grammercy, Lord!" then said Robin,
And set him on his knee.
He took his leave full courteously
To green wood then went he.
When he came to green wood
In a merry morning,
There he heard the notès small
Of birds, merry singing.
"It is far gone," said Robin,
"That I was last here.
Me list a little for to shoot
At the dun deer."
Robin slew a full great hart,
His horn then 'gan he blow,
That all the outlaws of that forest,
That horn could they know.
And gathered them together
In a little throw,
Seven score of wight young men
Came ready on a row,
And fair did off their hoods
And set them on their knee.
"Welcome!" they said, "our Master!
Under this green-wood tree!"
Robin dwelled in green wood
Twenty years and two;
For all dread of Edward our King
Again would he not go.
Yet was he beguiled i-wis
Through a wicked woman,
The Prioress of Kirkesley.
That nigh was of his kin,
For the love of a Knight,
Sir Roger of Donkesley.
That was her own special
(Full evil might they thee!)
They took together their counsel
Robin Hood for to slee,
And how they might best do that deed
His banes for to be.
Then bespake good Robin,
In place where as he stood,
"To-morrow, I must to Kirkesley
Craftily to be let blood!"
Sir Roger of Doncaster,
By the Prioress he lay:
And there they betrayed good Robin Hood
Through their false play.
Christ have mercy on his soul!
(That died on the rood)
For he was a good outlaw,
And did poor men much good.

English Carols.

[From a Manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford.]

c. 1540

Mater, ora filium,
ut post hoc exilium
nobis donet gaudium
beatorum omnium!

air maiden, who is this bairn
That thou bearest in thine arm?
Sir it is a Kinges Son,
That in Heaven above doth wone.
Mater, ora, etc.
Man to father he hath none,
But Himself God alone!
Of a maiden He would be born,
To save mankind that was forlorn!
Mater, ora, etc.
The Kings brought him presents,
Gold, myrrh, and frankincense
To my Son full of might,
King of Kings and Lord of right!
Mater, ora, etc.
Fair maiden pray for us
Unto thy Son, sweet Jesus,
That He will send us of His grace
In heaven on high to have a place!
Mater, ora, etc.

Ave Maria, now say we so,
Maid and mother were never no mo!

aude Maria! Christes mother,
Mary mild of thee I mean;
Thou bare my Lord, thou bare my brother,
Thou bare a lovely child and clean!
Thou stoodest full still without blin
When in thy ear that errand was done so,
Tho gracious God thee light within.
Gabrielis nuncio!
Gaude Maria! [preva]lent with grace
When Jesus thy Son on thee was bore,
Full nigh thy breast thou gan Him brace,
He sucked, He sighed, He wept full sore.
Thou fed'st the flower that never shall fade
With maiden's milk, and sung thereto
Lullay, my sweet! I bare thee, babe!
Cum pudoris lilio.
Gaude Maria! thy mirth was away,
When Christ on cross, thy Son, gan die,
Full dolefully on Good Friday,
That many a mother's son it sy.
His blood us brought from care and strife
His watery wound us washed from woe,
The third day from death to life
Fulget resurrectio.
Gaude Maria! thou bird so bright,
Brighter than blossom that bloweth on hill!
Joyfull thou were to see that sight,
When the Apostles, so sweet of will,
All and some did shriek full shrill
When the fairest of shape went you fro,
From earth to heaven he styed full still,
Motu quod fertur proprio.

Gaude Maria! thou rose of Ryse!
Maiden and mother both gentle and free,
Precious princess, peerless of price,
Thy bower is next the Trinity!
Thy Son as law asketh a right,
In body and soul thee took Him to,
Thou reignes with Him right as we find.
In coeli palatio.
Now, blessed bird, we pray thee a boon,
Before thy Son for us thou fall,
And pray Him, as He was on the rood done
And for us drank eisell and gall,
That we may wone within that wall
Wherever is well without woe,
And grant that grace unto us all.
In perenni gaudio.

Of a rose, a lovely rose
And of a rose I sing a song!

earken to me both old and young,
How a rose began to spring,
A fairer rose to my liking
Sprung there never in Kinges land.
Six branches are on that rose beme,
They be both bright and sheen.
The rose is called Mary, heaven queen,
Of her bosom a blossom sprung.
The first branch was of great might,
That sprung on Christmas night!
The star shone over Bethlehem bright,
That men might see both broad and long.

The second branch was of great honour,
It was sent from heaven tower!
Blessed be that fair flower,
Break it shall the fiendes bonds!
The third branch wide spread,
There Mary lay in her bed,
The bright stream three Kings led
To Bethlem there that branch they found.
The fourth branch sprung into hell,
The fiendes boast for to fell,
There might no soul therein dwell,
Blessed be that time that branch gan spring!
The fifth branch was fair in foot,
That sprung to heaven, top and root,
There to dwell and be our bote,
And yet is seen in priestes hands.
The sixth branch by and by,
It is the five joys of mild Mary!
Now Christ save all this company,
And send us good life and long!

Make me merry both more and less,
For now is the time of Christymas!

et no man come into this hall,
Groom, page, nor yet marshall,
But that some sport he bring withal!
For now is the time of Christmas!
If that he say, he can not sing,
Some other sport then let him bring!
That it may please at this feasting!
For now is the time of Christmas!

If he say he can naught do,
Then for my love ask him no mo!
But to the stocks then let him go!
For now is the time of Christmas!

Can I not sing but Hoy!
The jolly shepherd made so much joy!

he shepherd upon a hill he sat,
He had on him his tabard and his hat,
His tarbox, his pipe, and his flagat,
His name was called Jolly, Jolly Wat!
For he was a good herds-boy,
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy.
Can I not sing but hoy.
The shepherd upon a hill was laid,
His dog to his girdle was tayd,
He had not slept but a little braid
But "gloria in excelsis" was to him said
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.
The shepherd on a hill he stood,
Round about him his sheep they yode,
He put his hand under his hood,
He saw a star as red as blood.
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy.
Can I not sing, etc.
Now farewell Mall, and also Will,
For my love go ye all still,
Unto I come again you till,
And ever more will ring well thy bell.
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.

Now must I go there Christ was born,
Farewell! I come again to-morn,
Dog, keep well my sheep fro the corn!
And warn well Warroke when I blow my horn!
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.
When Wat to Bethlehem come was,
He sweat, he had gone faster than a pace,
He found Jesus in a simple place,
Between an ox and an ass.
Ut hoy!
For in [his] pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.
The shepherd said anon right:
I will go see yon farly sight,
Where as the angel singeth on height,
And the star that shineth so bright!
Ut hoy!
For in [his] pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.
Jesus, I offer to thee here my pipe,
My skirt, my tarbox and my scrip,
Home to my fellows now will I skip,
And also look unto my sheep!
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.
Now farewell, mine own herds-man Wat!
Yea, fore God, Lady, even so I hat!
Lull well Jesus in thy lap,
And farewell Joseph, with thy round cap!
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.

Now may I well both hope and sing,
For I have been at Christ's bearing,
Home to my fellows now will I fling,
Christ of heaven to His bliss us bring!
Ut hoy!
For in his pipe he made so much joy!
Can I not sing, etc.

Now have good day, now have good day!
I am Christmas, and now I go my way!

ere have I dwelt with more and less,
From Hallow-tide till Candlemas!
And now must I from you hence pass,
Now have good day!
I take my leave of King and Knight,
And Earl, Baron, and lady bright!
To wilderness I must me dight!
Now have good day!
And at the good lord of this hall,
I take my leave, and of guestes all!
Methinks I hear Lent doth call,
Now have good day!
And at every worthy officer,
Marshall, panter, and butler,
I take my leave as for this year,
Now have good day!
Another year I trust I shall
Make merry in this hall!
If rest and peace in England may fall!
Now have good day!

But often times I have heard say,
That he is loth to part away,
That often biddeth "have good day!"
Now have good day!
Now fare ye well all in-fere!
Now fare ye well for all this year,
Yet for my sake make ye good cheer!
Now have good day!

Now sing we with angels
Gloria in excelsis!

Babe is born to bliss us bring;
I heard a maid lullay and sing;
She said "dear Son, leave thy weeping,
Thy Father is the King of bliss."
Now sing we, etc.
"Lullay," she said and sang also,
"Mine own dear Son, why art thou woe?
Have I not done as I should do?
Thy grievance tell me what it is."
Now sing we, etc.
"Nay, dear mother, for thee weep I nought,
But for the woe that shall be wrought
To me, or I mankind have bought,
Was never sorrow like it, i-wis."
Now sing we, etc.
"Peace, dear Son, tell me not so!
Thou art my child, I have no mo!
Should I see men mine own Son slo?
Alas, my dear Son, what means this?"
Now sing we, etc.

"My hands, mother, that ye may see,
Shall be nailed unto a tree!
My feet also fast shall be;
Men shall weep that shall see this!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah, dear Son, hard is my hap!
See my child that sucked my pap,
His hands, his feet that I did wrap
Be so nailed, that never did amiss!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah, dear mother, yet shall a spear
My heart in sunder all to-tear;
No wonder if I carefull were,
And weep full sore to think on this!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah, dear Son, shall I see this?
Thou art my child and I thy mother, i-wis!
When Gabriel called me, full of grace,
He told me nothing of this!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah, dear mother, through my hair
To thrust in thorns they will not spare!
Alas, mother, I am full of care
That ye shall see this heaviness!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah dear Son, leave thy weeping!
Thou bringst my heart in great mourning;
A careful song now may I sing,
This tidings hard to me it is!"
Now sing we, etc.
"Ah, peace, dear mother, I thee pray!
And comfort me all that ye may,
And sing 'by by, lullay lullay,'
To put away all heaviness."
Now sing we, etc.

Caput apri refero
Resonens laudes domino.

he boar's head in hands I bring,
With garlands gay and birds singing!
I pray you all help me to sing,
Qui estis in convivio!
The boar's head I understand,
Is chief service in all this land,
Wheresoever it may be found,
Servitur cum sinapio!
The boar's head I dare well say,
Anon after the twelfth day,
He taketh his leave and goeth away!
Exivit tunc de patria!

I pray you be merry and sing with me,
In worship of Christ's Nativity!

nto this world this day did come
Jesus Christ, both God and man,
Lord and servant in one person,
Born of the blessed Virgin Mary!
I pray, etc.
He that was rich without any need
Appeared in this world in right poor weed,
To make us, that were poor indeed,
Rich without any need truly!
I pray, etc.
A stable was his chamber, a crach was his bed,
He had not a pillow to lay under His head,
With maiden's milk that babe was fed,
In poor clothes was lapped the Lord Almighty!
I pray, etc.

A noble lesson here is us taught,
To set all worldly riches at nought!
But pray we that we may be thither brought
Where riches is everlastingly!
I pray, etc.
Explicit.

Noël, noël, noël, noël!
This is the salutation of Gabriel!

idings true
There be come new,
Sent from the Trinity,
By Gabriel from Nazareth
A city of Galilee!
A clean maiden,
A pure virgin,
By her humility
Hath born the Person
Second in divinity!
Noël!
When that He presented was
Before her fair visage,
In most demure and goodly wise
He did to her homage!
"I am sent, Lady,
From heaven so high,
That Lord's heritage,
For He of thee
Now born will be,
I am sent on the message!"
Noël!
"Hail, Virgin celestial!
The meekest that ever was
Hail, temple of the Deity
Hail, Virgin pure!
I thee ensure,
Within a little space
Thou shalt conceive,
And Him receive
That shall bring great solace."
Noël!
Then bespake the Virgin again,
And answered womanly,
"Whatsoever my Lord commandeth me
I will obey truly!
Ecce, sum humillima
Ancilla domini,
Secundum verbum tuum
fiat mihi!
Noël!

Man, move thy mind and joy this feast,
Veritas de terra orta est!

s I came by the way
I saw a sight seemly to see,
Three shepherds ranging in a kay,
Upon the field keeping their fee.
A star, they said, they did espy,
Casting the beams out of the east,
And angels making melody
Veritas de terra orta est!
Upon that sight they were aghast,
Saying these words, as I say thee:
"To Bethlehem shortly let us haste,
And there we shall the truthe see!"
The angel said unto them all three,
To their comfort or ever be ceased,
"Consolamini and merry be,
Veritas de terra orta est!"

From heaven, out of the highest see,
Righteousness hath taken the way,
With mercy meddled plenteously,
And so conceived in a may,
Miranda res this is in fay!
So saith the prophet in his gest;
Now is He born, scripture doth say:
Veritas de terra orta est!
Then passed the shepherds from that place,
And followed by the starres beam,
That was so bright afore their face,
It brought them straight unto Bethlem.
So bright it shone, on all the realm
Till they came there they would not rest,
To Jewry and Jerusalem!
Veritas de terra orta est!

All this time this song is best:
Verbum caro factum est!

his night there is a child born
That sprang out of Jesse's thorn;
We must sing and say thereforn
Verbum caro factum est!
Jesus is the child's name,
And Mary mild is his dame;
All our sorrow shall turn to game,
Verbum caro factum est!
It fell upon high midnight,
The stars shone both fair and bright,
The angels sang with all their might
Verbum caro factum est!
Now kneel we down on our knee,
And pray we to the Trinity,
Our help, our succour for to be!
Verbum caro factum est!

Now sing we, sing we,
Gloria tibi domine!

hrist keep us all, as he well can,
A solis ortus cardine!
For He is both God and man,
Qui natus est de virgine!
Sing we, etc.
As He is Lord both day and night,
Venter puellae baiulat,
So is Mary mother of might,
Secreta quae non noverat.
Sing we, etc.
The holy breast of chastity,
verbo concepit filium,
So brought before the Trinity,
Ut castitatis lilium!
Sing we, etc.
Between an ox and an ass
enixa est puerpera;
In poor clothing clothed He was
[Qui] regnat super aethera!
Sing we, etc.
Explicit.

[Larger Image]

[Text of Image]

W. Tindale. 1530.

Unto the Christian Reader.

race and peace in our Lord Jesus Christ. Read here with judgement, good Reader! the Examination of the blessed Man of GOD, and there thou shalt easily perceive wherefore our Holy Church (as the most unholy sort of all the people will be called) make all their examinations in darkness; all the lay people clean excluded from their counsels.

For if their lies had been openly confuted, and also that the Accused of Heresy might as well have been admitted to reason their Articles with Counsel, whether they were heresy or no[t], as the Accused of Treason against the King is admitted to his Council to confute his cause and Articles, whether they be treason or not, they should never have murdered nor prisoned so many good Christian men as they have done.

For their cloaked lies could never have continued so long in the light, as they have done in corners. They, good men! when they come in the pulpit, and preach against the Truth, cry, "If their learning [i.e., of the Protestants] were good and true, they would never go in corners; but speak it openly!"

Whereunto I answer, that besides that Christ and his Apostles were compelled (for because of the furiousness of their fathers, the Bishops and Priests, which only, that time also, would be called Holy Church) oftentimes for to walk secretly, and absent themselves, and give place to their malice. Yet we have daily examples, of more than one or two, that have not spared nor feared for to speak, and also [to] preach openly the Truth; which have been taken of them, prisoned, and brent: besides others that for fear of death, have abjured and carried faggots. Of whose Articles and Examination there is no layman that can shew a word.

Deaths of seven at Coventry, &c.

Who can tell wherefore, not many years past, there were Seven burnt in Coventry on one day? Who can tell wherefore that good priest and holy martyr, Sir [the reverend] Thomas Hitton was brent, now this year, at Maidstone in Kent? I am sure, no man! For this is their cast [contrivance] ever when they have put to death or punished any man: after their secret Examinations, to slander him of such things as he never thought; as they may do well enough, seeing there is no man to contrary them.

Wherefore I exhort thee, good brother! whosoever thou be that readest this treatise, mark it well, and consider it seriously! and there thou shalt find, not only what the Church is, their doctrine of the Sacrament, the Worshipping of Images, Pilgrimage, Confession, Swearing, and Paying of Tithes: but also thou mayest see what strong and substantial arguments of Scripture and Doctors, and what clerkly reasons my Lord the head and Primate of the Holy Church in England (as he will be taken) bringeth against this poor, foolish, simple, and mad losell, knave, and heretic, as he calleth him. And also the very cause wherefore all their Examinations are made in darkness.

And the Lord of all Light shall lighten thee with the candle of His grace, for to see the Truth! Amen.

This I have corrected and put forth in the English that
now is used in England, for our Southern men;
nothing thereto adding, ne yet therefrom
minishing. And I intend hereafter,
with the help of GOD to put it
forth in his own old English,
which shall well serve, I
doubt not, both for the
Northern men and
the faithful
brethren
of Scot-
land.

1407.

[William of Thorpe's Preface.]

he LORD GOD that knoweth all things, wotteth well that I am right sorrowful for to write or make known this Sentence beneath written, where that of mine even Christian, set in high state and dignity, so great blindness and malice may be known; that they, that presume of themselves to destroy vices and to plant in men virtues, neither dread to offend GOD, nor lust [desire] to please Him: as their works shew. For, certes, the bidding of GOD and His Law (which, in the praising of His most Holy Name, He commandeth to be known and kept of all men and women, young and old; after the cunning and power that He hath given to them), the Prelates of this land and their ministers, with the comente [community] of priests chiefly consenting to them, enforce them most busily to withstand and destroy the holy Ordinance of GOD. And therethrough, GOD is greatly wroth and moved to take hard vengeance, not only on them that do the evil, but also on them all that consent to the Antichrist's limbs; which know or might know their malice and their falsehood, and [ad]dress them not to withstand their malice and great pride.

The four motives to this Narrative.

Nevertheless, four things moveth me to write this Sentence beneath.

The first thing, that moveth me hereto is this, that whereas it was known to certain friends that I came from the prison of Shrewsbury, and (as it befell in deed), that I should to the prison of Canterbury; then divers friends, in divers places, spake to me full heartfully and full tenderly, and commanded me then, if it so were that I should be examined before the Archbishop of Canterbury, that, if I might in any wise, I should write mine Apposing and mine Answering. And I promised to my special friends, that if I might, I would gladly do their biddings, as I might.

The second thing that moveth me to write this Sentence is this. Divers friends which have heard that I have been examined before the Archbishop, have come to me in prison and counselled me busily, and coveted greatly that I should do the same thing. And other brethren have sent to me, and required me, on GOD's behalf! that I should write out and make known both mine Apposing and mine Answering "for the profit that," as they say, "over my [ac]knowledging may come thereof." But this, they bade me, that I should be busy in all my wits to go as near the Sentence and the words as I could; both that were spoken to me, and that I spake: up[on] adventure this Writing came another time, before the Archbishop and his Council. And of this counselling I was right glad! for in my conscience, I was moved to do this thing; and to ask hereto the special help of GOD.

And so then, I considering the great desire of divers friends of sundry places, according all in one; I occupied all my mind and my wits so busily, that through GOD's grace, I perceived by their meaning and their charitable desire some profit might come therethrough.

Truth impugned, hath a sweet smell.

For Soothfastness and Truth hath these conditions. Wherever it is impugned, it hath a sweet smell, and thereof comes a sweet savour. And the more violent the enemies [ad]dress themselves to oppress and to withstand the Truth, the greater and the sweeter smell cometh thereof. And therefore this heavenly smell of GOD's Word will not, as a smoke, pass away with the wind; but it will descend and rest in some clean soul that thirsteth thereafter.

And thus, some deal, by this Writing, may be perceived, through GOD's grace, how that the enemies of the Truth, standing boldly in their malice, enforce them to withstand the freedom of Christ's Gospel; for which freedom, Christ became man, and shed his heart's blood. And therefore it is great pity and sorrow that many men and women do their own wayward will; nor busy them not to know nor to do the pleasant will of GOD.

Ye men and women that hear the Truth and Soothfastness, and hear or know of this, perceiving what is now in the Church, ought therethrough to be the more moved in all their wits to able them to grace, and set lesser price by themselves: that they, without tarrying, forsake wilfully [voluntarily] and bodily all the wretchedness of this life; since they know not how soon, nor when, nor where, nor by whom GOD will teach them, and assay their patience. For, no doubt, who that ever will live piteously, that is charitably, in Christ Jesu shall suffer now, here in this life, persecution in one wise or another, that is, if we shall be saved.

This Story may startle some consciences.

It behoveth us to imagine full busily, the vilite and foulness of sin, and how the LORD GOD is displeased therefore: and of this vilite of hideousness of sin, it behoveth us to busy us in all our wits for to abhor and hold in our mind a great shame of sin, ever! and so then we owe [ought] to sorrow heartily therefore, and ever flying all occasion thereof. And then [it] behoveth us to take upon us sharp penance, continuing therein, for to obtain of the LORD, forgiveness of our foredone sins, and grace to abstain us hereafter from sin! And but if [except] we enforce us to do this wilfully and in convenient time, the LORD (if He will not utterly destroy and cast us away!) will, in divers manners, move tyrants against us, for to constrain us violently for to do penance, which we would not do wilfully. And, trust! that this doing is a special grace of the LORD, and a great token of life and mercy!

And, no doubt, whoever will not apply himself, as is said before, to punish himself wilfully, neither will suffer patiently, meekly, and gladly the rod of the LORD, howsoever that He will punish him: their wayward wills and their impatience are unto them earnest of everlasting damnation.

But because there are but few in number that do able them thus faithfully to grace, for to live here simply and purely, and without gall of malice and of grudging, herefore the lovers of this world hate and pursue them that they know patient, meek, chaste, and wilfully poor, hating and fleeing all worldly vanities and fleshly lusts. For, surely, their virtuous conditions are even contrary to the manners of this world.

The third thing that moveth me to write this Sentence is this. I thought I shall busy me in myself to do faithfully, that all men and women occupying all their business in knowing and in keeping of GOD's commandments, able them so to grace, that they might understand truly the Truth, and have and use virtue and prudence; and so to serve to be lightened from above with heavenly wisdom: so that all their words and their works may be hereby made pleasant sacrifices unto the LORD GOD; and not only for help for their own souls, but also for edification of all Holy Church.

For I doubt not but all they that will apply them to have this foresaid business shall profit full mickle both to friends and to foes. For some enemies of the Truth, through the grace of GOD, shall, through charitable folks, be made astonied in their conscience, and peradventure converted from vices to virtues; and also they that labour to know and to keep faithfully the biddings of GOD, and to suffer patiently all adversities, shall hereby comfort many friends.

And the fourth thing that moveth me to write this Sentence is this. I know my sudden and unwarned Apposing and Answering that all they that will of good heart without feigning able themselves wilfully and gladly, after their cunning and their power, to follow Christ patiently, travailing busily, privily and apertly, in work and in word, to withdraw whomsoever that they may from vices, planting in them (if they may) virtues, comforting them and furthering them that standeth in grace; so that therewith they be not borne up into vainglory through presumption of their wisdom, nor enflamed with any worldly prosperity: but ever meek and patient, purposing to abide steadfastly in the Will of GOD, suffering wilfully and gladly, without any grudging whatsoever, the rod the LORD will chastise them with.

Innocence receives Divine help.

Then this good LORD will not forget to comfort all such men and women in all their tribulations, and at every point of temptation that any enemy purposeth for to do against them ([to] such faithful lovers specially, and patient followers of Christ), the LORD sendeth His wisdom from above to them! which the adversaries of the Truth may not know nor understand; but through their old and new unshamefast sins, those tyrants and enemies of Soothfastness shall be so blinded and obstinate in evil, that they shall ween themselves to do pleasant sacrifices unto the LORD GOD in their malicious and wrongful pursuing and destroying of innocent men's and women's bodies; which men and women for their very virtuous living and for their true knowledging of the Truth and their patient, wilful, and glad suffering of persecution for righteousness, deserve through the grace of GOD to be heirs of the endless bliss of heaven.

And for [on account of] the fervent desire and the great love that those men have, as to stand in Soothfastness and witness of it, though they be, suddenly and unwarned, brought forth to be Apposed of their adversaries: the HOLY GHOST yet, that moveth and ruleth them, through His charity, will, in the hour of their Answering, speak in them, and shew His wisdom, that all their enemies shall not again say [gainsay] and against stand lawfully [by right].

And therefore all they that are stedfast in the faith of GOD, yea, which (through diligent keeping of His commandments, and for their patient suffering of whatsoever adversity that cometh to them) hope surely in His mercy, purposing to stand continually in perfect charity: for those men and women dread not so the adversities of this life, that they will fear (after their cunning and their power) to [ac]knowledge prudently the truth of GOD's Word! when, where, and to whom that they think their [ac]knowledging may profit. Yea, and though therefore, persecution come to them, in one wise or another, certes, they patiently take it! knowing their conversation to be in heaven.

Heaven is the LORD GOD Himself.

It is a high reward and a special grace of GOD for to have and enjoy as the everlasting inheritance of heaven, for the suffering of one persecution in so short a time as is the term of this life. For, lo, this heavenly heritage and endless reward is the LORD GOD Himself! which is the best thing that may be. This Sentence witnesseth the LORD GOD Himself, whereas He said to Abraham, I am thy mede! And as the LORD said He was, and is the mede of Abraham; so He is of all His other saints.

This most blessed and best mede He grant to us all! for His holy name, that made us of nought, and sent His only most dear worthy Son, our Lord Jesu Christ, for to redeem

us with His most precious
heart's blood.
Amen.

William. ? 1407.

[The Examination of sir William of Thorpe.]

nown be it to all men that read or hear this Writing beneath, that on the Sunday next [August 7th] after the Feast of St. Peter that we call Lammas [August 1st], in the year of our Lord a thousand four hundred seventh year, I, William of Thorpe, being in prison in the castle of Saltwood [near Hythe, in Kent], was brought before Thomas Arundell, Archbishop of Canterbury, and [Lord] Chancellor then of England.

And when that I came to him, he stood in a great chamber, and much people [were] about him; and when that he saw me, he went fast into a closet [private room], bidding all secular men [laymen] that followed him, to go forth from him soon; so that no man was left then in that closet, but the Archbishop himself, a physician that was called Malveren [i.e., John Malverne, S.T.P.], Parson of St. Dunstan's [Church, in Tower Street] in London, and two other persons unknown to me, which were Ministers of the Law [i.e., the Canon Law: later on, they are called Clerks, i.e., Chaplains].

A precise & authentic Lollard Creed.

Archbishop. And I standing before them, by and by, the Archbishop said to me, "William! I know well, that thou hast, this twenty winter and more [i.e., from before 1387], travelled about busily, in the North country and in other divers countries [counties] of England, sowing about false doctrine: having great business, if thou might, with thine untrue teaching and shrewd will, for to infect and poison all this land. But, through the grace of GOD! thou art now withstanded, and brought into my ward! so that I shall now sequester thee from thine evil purpose, and let [hinder] thee to envenom the sheep of my Province. Nevertheless, St. Paul saith, If it may be, as far as in us is, we owe [ought] to have peace with all men. Therefore, William! if thou wilt now, meekly, and of good heart, without any feigning, kneel down and lay thy hand upon a book, and kiss it; promising faithfully as I shall here charge thee, that 'thou wilt submit thee to my correction and stand to mine ordinance, and fulfil it duly by all thy cunning and power,' thou shalt yet find me gracious unto thee!"

William. Then said I, to the Archbishop, "Sir, since ye deem me an heretic out of belief, will ye give me here audience to tell my Belief."

Archbishop. And he said, "Yea, tell on!"

William. And I said, "I believe that there is not but one GOD Almighty, and in this Godhead and of this Godhead are three Persons; that is the Father, the Son, and the soothfast HOLY GHOST. And I believe that all these three Persons are even in power, in cunning, and in might, full of grace and of all goodness: for whatever that the Father doth or can or will, that thing also the Son doth can and will; and in all their power cunning and will, the HOLY GHOST is equal to the Father and to the Son.

Over this, I believe that, through counsel of this most blessed Trinity (in most convenient time, before ordained), for the salvation of mankind, the second Person of this Trinity was ordained to take the form of Man, that is the Kind of man. And I believe that this second Person, our Lord Jesu Christ was conceived, through the HOLY GHOST, into the womb of the most blessed Virgin Mary without any man's seed. And I believe that after nine months, Christ was born of this most blessed Virgin without any pain or breaking of the closter of her womb, and without filth of her virginity.

And I believe that Christ our Saviour was circumcised in the eighth day after his birth, in fulfilment of the Law; and his name was called Jesus, which was called of the angel before he was conceived in the womb of Mary his mother.

And I believe that Christ, as he was about thirty years old, was baptized in the flood of Jordan of John [the] Baptist, and in likeness of a dove the HOLY GHOST descended there upon him; and a voice was heard from heaven, saying, Thou art my well beloved Son! In Thee, I am full pleased!

And I believe that Christ was moved then by the HOLY GHOST for to go into [the] desert, and there he fasted forty days and forty nights without bodily meat and drink. And I believe that by and by, after his fasting, when the manhood of Christ hungered, the Fiend came to him and tempted him in gluttony, in vainglory, and in covetise: but in all those temptations Christ concluded [confounded] the Fiend and withstood him.

And then, without tarrying, Jesu began to preach, and to say unto the people, Do ye penance! for the Realm of Heaven is now at hand!

And I believe that Christ, in all his time here, lived most holily; and taught the Will of his Father most truly: and I believe that he suffered therefore most wrongfully, greatest reproofs and despisings.

And after this, when Christ would make an end here, of his temporal life, I believe that, in the day next before that he would suffer passion on the morn, in form of bread and wine, he ordained the Sacrament of his flesh and blood, that is his own precious body, and gave it to his Apostles for to eat, commanding them, and by them all their after-comers, that they should do it, in this form that he shewed to them, use themselves and teach and common forth to other men and women this most worshipful holiest Sacrament; in mindfulness of his holiest Living and of his most true Teaching, and of his wilful and patient Suffering of the most painful Passion.

And I believe that thus, Christ our Saviour, after that he had ordained this most worthy Sacrament of his own precious body, he went forth wilfully against his enemies, and he suffered them most patiently to lay their hands most violently upon him, and to bind him, and to lead him forth as a thief, and to scorn and buffet him, and all to blow or [de]file him with their spittings.

Over this, I believe that Christ suffered, most meekly and patiently, his enemies for to ding [beat] out with sharp scourges, the blood that was between his skin and his flesh: yea, without grudging, Christ suffered wicked Jews to crown him with most sharp thorns, and to strike him with a reed. And, after, Christ suffered wicked Jews to draw [lay] him out upon the Cross, and for to nail him there, upon foot and hand; and so, through this pitiful nailing, Christ shed out wilfully, for man's life, the blood that was in his veins: and then, Christ gave wilfully his spirit into the hands or power of his Father. And so, as he would, and when he would, Christ died wilfully, for man's sake, upon the Cross. And notwithstanding that Christ was wilfully, painfully, and most shamefully put to death as to the world, there was left blood and water in his heart, as he before ordained that he would shed out this blood and this water for man's salvation. And therefore he suffered the Jews to make a blind [ignorant] Knight to thrust him into the heart with a spear; and this the blood and water that was in his heart, Christ would shed out for man's love.

And, after this, I believe that Christ was taken down from the Cross, and buried.

And I believe that on the third day, by the power of his godhead, Christ rose again from death to life. And forty days thereafter, I believe that Christ ascended up into heaven; and that he there sitteth on the right hand of GOD the Father Almighty. And the tenth day after his up going, he sent to his Apostles the HOLY GHOST, that he had promised them before.

And I believe that Christ shall come and judge all mankind, some to everlasting peace, and some to everlasting pains.

And as I believe in the Father, and in the Son, that they are one GOD Almighty; so I believe in the HOLY GHOST that is also, with them, the same GOD Almighty.

And I believe [in] an Holy Church, that is, all they that have been, and that now are, and always to the end of the world shall be, a people the which shall endeavour them to know, and keep the commandments of GOD; dreading over all things to offend GOD, and loving and seeking most to please Him. And I believe that all they that have had, and yet have, and all they that yet shall have the foresaid virtues, surely standing in the Belief of GOD, hoping steadfastly in His merciful doings, continuing to their end in perfect charity, wilfully patiently and gladly suffering persecutions by the example of Christ chiefly and His Apostles; and these have their names written in the Book of Life. Therefore I believe that the gathering together of this people living now in this life, is the Holy Church of GOD, fighting here on earth against the Fiend, the prosperity of the world, and their fleshly lusts. Wherefore, seeing that all the gathering together of this Church beforesaid, and every part thereof, neither coveteth, nor willeth, nor loveth, nor seeketh anything, but to eschew the offence of GOD, and to do His pleasing will: meekly, gladly, and wilfully, of all mine heart, I submit myself unto this Holy Church of Christ; to be ever buxom and obedient to the ordinance of it, and of every member thereof, after my knowledge and power, by the help of GOD.

Therefore I [ac]knowledge now, and evermore shall (if GOD will!) that, of all my heart, and of all my might, I will submit me only to the rule and governance of them whom, after my knowledge, I may perceive, by the having and using of the beforesaid virtues, to be members of the Holy Church.

Wherefore these Articles of Belief and all others, both of the Old Law and of the New, which, after the commandment of GOD, any man ought to believe, I believe verily in my soul, as a sinful deadly wretch of my cunning and power ought to believe; praying the LORD GOD, for His holy name, for to increase my belief, and help my unbelief.

And for because, to the praising of GOD's name, I desire above all things to be a faithful member of Holy Church, I make this Protestation before you all four that are now here present, coveting that all men and women that [are] now absent knew the same; that what thing soever before this time I have said or done, or what thing here I shall do or say at any time hereafter, I believe that all the Old Law and the New Law given and ordained by the counsel of these three Persons in the Trinity, were given and written to [for] the salvation of mankind. And I believe these Laws are sufficient for the man's salvation. And I believe every Article of these Laws to the intent that these Articles were ordained and commanded, of these three Persons of the most blessed Trinity, to be believed. And therefore to the rule and the ordinance of these, GOD's Laws, meekly, gladly, and wilfully, I submit me with all mine heart: that whoever can or will, by authority of GOD's Law, or by open reason, tell me that I have erred, or now err, or any time hereafter shall err in any Article of Belief (from which inconvenience, GOD keep me, for his goodness!) I submit me to be reconciled, and to be buxom and obedient unto these Laws of GOD, and to every Article of them. For by authority specially of these Laws, I will, through the grace of GOD, be unied [united] charitably unto these Laws.

Archbishop's conditions to William.

Yea, Sir, and over this, I believe and admit all the Sentences, authorities, and reasons of the Saints and Doctors, according unto Holy Scripture, and declaring it truly. I submit me wilfully and meekly to be ever obedient, after my cunning and power, to all these Saints and Doctors as they are obedient in work and in word to GOD and his Law: and further, not to my knowledge; nor for any earthly power, dignity, or state, through the help of GOD.

"But, Sir, I pray you tell me, if after your bidding, I shall lay my hand upon the book, to the intent to swear thereby?"

Archbishop. And the Archbishop said unto me, "Yea! wherefore else?"

William. And I said to him, "Sir, a book is nothing else but a thing coupled together of diverse creatures [created things]; and to swear by any creature, both GOD's Law and man's law is against. But, Sir, this thing I say here to you, before these your Clerks, with my foresaid Protestation, that how, where, when, and to whom, men are bounden to swear or to obey, in any wise, after GOD's Laws, and Saints and good Doctors according with GOD's Law; I will, through GOD's grace, be ever ready thereto, with all my cunning and power!

"But I pray you, Sir, for the charity of GOD! that ye will, before that I swear as I have rehearsed to you, tell me how or whereto that I shall submit me; and shew me whereof that ye will correct me, and what is the ordinance that ye will thus oblige me to fulfil?"

Archbishop. And the Archbishop said unto me, "I will, shortly, that now thou swear here to me, that thou shalt forsake all the opinions which the Sect of Lollards hold, and is slandered [charged] with; so that, after this time, neither privily nor apertly, thou hold any opinion which I shall, after that thou hast sworn, rehearse to thee here. Nor thou shalt favour no man nor woman, young nor old, that holdeth any of these foresaid opinions; but, after thy knowledge and power, thou shalt enforce thee to withstand all such distroublers of Holy Church in every diocese that thou comest in; and them that will not leave their false and damnable opinions, thou shalt put them up, publishing them and their names; and make them known to the Bishop of the diocese that they are in, or to the Bishop's Ministers. And, over this, I will that thou preach no more, unto the time that I know, by good witness and true, that thy conversation be such that thy heart and thy mouth accord truly in one contrarying [of] all the lewd learning that thou hast taught herebefore."

And I, hearing these words, thought in my heart that this was an unlawful asking; and I deemed myself cursed of GOD, if I consented hereto: and I thought how Susanna said, Anguish is to me on every side!

Archbishop. And in that I stood still, and spake not; the Archbishop said to me, "Answer one wise or another!"

He is to be the Bishops' spy.

William. And I said, "Sir, if I consented to you thus, as ye have here rehearsed to me; I should become an Appealer, or every Bishop's Spy! Summoner of all England! For an [if] I should thus put up and publish the names of men and women, I should herein deceive full many persons: yea, Sir, as it is likely, by the doom of my conscience, I should herein be cause of the death, both of men and women; yea, both bodily and ghostly. For many men and women that stand now in the Truth, and are in the way of salvation, if I should for the learning and reading of their Belief publish them or put them therefore up to Bishops or to their unpiteous Ministers, I know some deal by experience, that they should be so distroubled and dis-eased with persecution or otherwise, that many of them, I think, would rather choose to forsake the Way of Truth than to be travailed, scorned, and slandered or punished as Bishops and their Ministers now use [are accustomed] for to constrain men and women to consent to them.

"But I find in no place in Holy Scripture, that this office that ye would now enfeoff me with, accordeth to any priest of Christ's sect, nor to any other Christian man. And therefore to do thus, were to me a full noyous bond to be bounden with, and over grievous charge. For I suppose that if I thus did, many men and women in the world, yea, Sir, might justly, unto my confusion say to me that 'I were a traitor to GOD and to them!' since, as I think in mine heart, many men and women trust so mickle in me in this case, that I would not, for the saving of my life, do thus to them. For if I thus should do, full many men and women would, as they might full truly, say that 'I had falsely and cowardly forsaken the Truth, and slandered shamefully the Word of GOD!' For if I consented to you, to do hereafter your will, for bonchief and mischief that may befall to me in this life, I deem in my conscience that I were worthy herefore to be cursed of GOD, as also of all His Saints! From which inconvenience keep me and all Christian people, Almighty GOD! now and ever, for His holy name!"

Arundell threatens to burn William.