And that me greveth sore;
For thi cradel is ase a bere,
Oxe and asse beth thi fere:
Weepe ich mai tharfore.
Iesu, swete, beo noth wroth,
Thou ich nabbe clout ne cloth
The on for to folde,
The on to folde ne to wrappe,
For iche nabbe clout ne lappe;
Bote ley thou thi fet to my pappe,
And wite the from the colde.
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A XVth Century Verse Paraphrase of Flavius Vegetius Renatus’ Treatise ‘DE RE MILITARI’
Salue, festa diesi martis,Mauortis! aueteKalende. Qua Deusad celum subleuatire Dauid.Hail, halyday deuout! Alhail KalendeOf Marche, wheryn Dauid the ConfessourCommaunded is his kyngis court ascende;Emanuel, Jhesus the Conquerour,This same day as a Tryumphatour,Sette in a Chaire & Throne of Maiestee,To London is comyn. O Saviour,Welcome a thousand fold to thi Citee!And she, thi modir Blessed mot…
I sing of a maiden
King of all kingsTo her son she ches.He came al so stillThere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came al so stillTo his mother’s bour,As dew in April,That falleth on the flour.He came al so stillThere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.Mother and maidenWas never none but…
Of on that is so fayr and bright
Brighter than the day is light,Parens et puella:Ic crie to the, thou see to me,Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,Tam pia,That ic mote come to theeMaria.Al this world was for-loreEva peccatrice,Tyl our Lord was y-boreDe te genetrice.Withaveit went awayThuster nyth and cometh the daySalutis;The welle springeth ut of theVirtutis.Levedy, flour of alle thing,Rosa sine spina,Thu…
With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Unto the flour of port in womanhedeI write, as he that non intelligenceOf metres hath, ne floures of sentence;Sauf that me list my writing to convey,In that I can to please her hygh nobley.The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden sootePresent thaim not, my mater for to borne:Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,Ne crafte of…
The yere of our Lord m. ccc. l. and two:
The soul of Jon Newles, the body passid fro:A brother of this place restyng undir yis stone here:Born in beame squyer and suant more yan xxx yere:Unto Harry Beauford bushhop and cardinal:Whos soules God convey and His Moder dere:Vnto the blisse of Heven that is eternall. Amen:
Western wind, when will thou blow
Christ, if my love were in my armsAnd I in my bed again!