This maiden is suete ant fre of blod,

Briht ant feyr, of milde mod,

Alle heo mai don us god,

thurh hire bysechynge;

Of hire he tok fleysh ant blod,
Jhesu hevene kynge.

With al mi lif y love that may,
He is mi solas nyht ant day,
My joie ant eke my beste play,
ant eke my love-longynge;
Al the betere me is that day
that ich of hire synge.

Of alle thinge y love hire mest,
My dayes blis, my nyhtes rest,
Heo counseileth ant helpeth best

bothe elde ant zynge;

Now

y may 3ef y wole

the fif joyes mynge.

The furst joie of that wynman,
When Gabriel from hevene cam,

Ant seide God shulde bicome man,

ant of hire be bore,

Ant bringe up of helle pyn

monkyn that wes for-lore.

That other joie of that may,

Wes o Cristesmasse day,

When God wes bore on thore lay,

ant brohte us lyhtnesse; Thestri wes seie byfore day, this hirdes bereth wytnesse.

The thridde joie of that levedy,
That men clepeth the Epyphany,
When the kynges come wery,
to presente hyre sone
With myrre, gold, ant encenz,

that wes mon bicome.

The furthe joie we telle mawen,

On Ester morewe wen hit

Hyre sone that wes slawen,

gon dawen,

aros in fleyshe ant bon; More joie ne mai me haven wyf ne mayden non.

The fifte joie of that wymman,
When hire body to hevene cam,

The soule to the body nam,

ase hit wes woned to bene;

Crist leve us alle with that wymman

that joie al forte sene.

Preye we alle to oure levedy,

Ant to the sontes that woneth hire by,

That heo of us haven merci,

ant that we ne misse

In this world to ben holy,

ant wynne hevene blysse! AMEN.

XXXV.

[Fol. 83, ro.]

MAYDEN moder milde,

oiez cel oreysoun;

From shome thou me shilde, e de ly malfeloun.

For love of thine childe,

me menez de tresoun;

Ich wes wod ant wilde, ore su en prisoun.

Thou art feyr ant fre,
e plein de doucour;
Of the sprong the ble,
ly soverein creatour ;
Mayde, byseche y the,

vostre seint socour,

Meoke ant mylde, be with me,

pur

la sue amour.

Tho Judas Jesum founde,

donque ly beysa ;

He wes bete ant bounde,

que nus tous fourma;

Wyde were is wounde,

qe le Gyw ly dona;

He tholede harde stounde,

mè poi le greva.

H

1

XXXVI.

[Fol. 106, ro.]

GOD, that al this myhtes may,

in hevene ant erthe thy wille ys 00, Ichabbe be losed mony a day,

er ant late y be thy foo;

Ich wes to wyte ant wiste my lay, longe habbe holde me ther-fro; Vol of merci thou art ay,

al ungreythe icham to the to go.

To go to him that hath ous boht, my gode deden bueth fol smalle Of the werkes that ich ha wroht,

the beste is bittrore then the galle. My god ich wiste, y nolde hit noht, in folie me wes luef to falle ; When y my self have thourh-soht, y knowe me for the wrst of alle.

God, that dezedest on the rod,

al this world to forthren ant fylle, For ous thou sheddest thi suete blod, that y ha don me lyketh ylle; Bote er azeyn the stith y stod, er ant late, loude ant stille,

Of myne deden fynde y non god,
Lord, of me thou do thy wille.