| Almighty and al merciable queene, |
| To whom that al this world fleeth for socour, |
| To have relees of sinne, of sorwe, and teene, |
| Glorious virgine, of alle floures flour, |
| 5 | To thee I flee, confounded in errour. |
| Help and releeve, thou mighti debonayre, |
| Have mercy on my perilous langour. |
| Venquisshed me hath my cruel adversaire. |
| |
| Bountee so fix hath in thin herte his tente |
| 10 | That wel I wot thou wolt my socour bee; |
| Thou canst not warne him that with good entente |
| Axeth thin helpe, thin herte is ay so free. |
| Thou art largesse of pleyn felicitee, |
| Haven of refut, of quiete, and of reste. |
| 15 | Loo, how that theeves sevene chasen mee. |
| Help, lady bright, er that my ship tobreste. |
| |
| Comfort is noon but in yow, ladi deere; |
| For loo, my sinne and my confusioun, |
| Which oughten not in thi presence appeere, |
| 20 | Han take on me a greevous accioun |
| Of verrey right and desperacioun; |
| And as bi right thei mighten wel susteene |
| That I were wurthi my dampnacioun, |
| Nere merci of you, blisful hevene queene. |
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| 25 | Dowte is ther noon, thou queen of misericorde, |
| That thou n' art cause of grace and merci heere; |
| God vouched sauf thurgh thee with us to accorde. |
| For certes, Crystes blisful mooder deere, |
| Were now the bowe bent in swich maneere |
| 30 | As it was first of justice and of ire, |
| The rightful God nolde of no mercy heere; |
| But thurgh thee han we grace as we desire. |
| |
| Evere hath myn hope of refut been in thee, |
| For heer-biforn ful ofte in many a wyse |
| 35 | Hast thou to misericorde receyved me. |
| But merci, ladi, at the grete assyse |
| Whan we shule come bifore the hye justyse. |
| So litel fruit shal thanne in me be founde |
| That, but thou er that day correcte [vice], |
| 40 | Of verrey right my werk wol me confounde. |
| |
| Fleeinge, I flee for socour to thi tente |
| Me for to hide from tempeste ful of dreede, |
| Biseeching yow that ye you not absente |
| Thouh I be wikke. O, help yit at this neede! |
| 45 | Al have I ben a beste in wil and deede, |
| Yit, ladi, thou me cloth. with thi grace. |
| Thin enemy and myn -- ladi, tak heede -- |
| Unto my deth in poynt is me to chace! |
| |
| Glorious mayde and mooder, which that nevere |
| 50 | Were bitter, neither in erthe nor in see, |
| But ful of swetnesse and of merci evere, |
| Help that my Fader be not wroth with me. |
| Spek thou, for I ne dar not him ysee, |
| So have I doon in erthe, allas the while, |
| 55 | That certes, but if thou my socour bee, |
| To stink eterne he wole my gost exile. |
| |
| He vouched sauf, tel him, as was his wille, |
| Bicome a man, to have oure alliaunce, |
| And with his precious blood he wrot the bille |
| 60 | Upon the crois as general acquitaunce |
| To every penitent in ful creaunce; |
| And therfore, ladi bright, thou for us praye. |
| Thanne shalt thou bothe stinte al his grevaunce, |
| And make oure foo to failen of his praye. |
| |
| 65 | I wot it wel, thou wolt ben oure socour, |
| Thou art so ful of bowntee, in certeyn, |
| For whan a soule falleth in errour |
| Thi pitee goth and haleth him ayein. |
| Thanne makest thou his pees with his sovereyn |
| 70 | And bringest him out of the crooked strete. |
| Whoso thee loveth, he shal not love in veyn, |
| That shal he fynde as he the lyf shal lete. |
| |
| Kalenderes enlumyned ben thei |
| That in this world ben lighted with thi name, |
| 75 | And whoso goth to yow the righte wey, |
| Him thar not drede in soule to be lame. |
| Now, queen of comfort, sith thou art that same |
| To whom I seeche for my medicyne, |
| Lat not my foo no more my wounde entame; |
| 80 | Myn hele into thin hand al I resygne. |
| |
| Ladi, thi sorwe kan I not portreye |
| Under the cros, ne his greevous penaunce; |
| But for youre bothes peynes I yow preye, |
| Lat not oure alder foo make his bobaunce |
| 85 | That he hath in his lystes of mischaunce |
| Convict that ye bothe have bought so deere. |
| As I seide erst, thou ground of oure substaunce, |
| Continue on us thi pitous eyen cleere! |
| |
| Moises, that saugh the bush with flawmes rede |
| 90 | Brenninge, of which ther never a stikke brende, |
| Was signe of thin unwemmed maidenhede. |
| Thou art the bush on which ther gan descende |
| The Holi Gost, the which that Moyses wende |
| Had ben a-fyr, and this was in figure. |
| 95 | Now, ladi, from the fyr thou us defende |
| Which that in helle eternalli shal dure. |
| |
| Noble princesse, that nevere haddest peere, |
| Certes if any comfort in us bee, |
| That cometh of thee, thou Cristes mooder deere. |
| 100 | We han noon oother melodye or glee |
| Us to rejoyse in oure adversitee, |
| Ne advocat noon that wole and dar so preye |
| For us, and that for litel hire as yee |
| That helpen for an Ave-Marie or tweye. |
| |
| 105 | O verrey light of eyen that ben blynde, |
| O verrey lust of labour and distresse, |
| O tresoreere of bountee to mankynde, |
| Thee whom God ches to mooder for humblesse! |
| From his ancille he made the maistresse |
| 110 | Of hevene and erthe, oure bille up for to beede. |
| This world awaiteth evere on thi goodnesse |
| For thou ne failest nevere wight at neede. |
| |
| Purpos I have sum time for to enquere |
| Wherfore and whi the Holi Gost thee soughte |
| 115 | Whan Gabrielles vois cam to thin ere. |
| He not to werre us swich a wonder wroughte, |
| But for to save us that he sithen boughte. |
| Thanne needeth us no wepen us for to save, |
| But oonly ther we dide not, as us oughte, |
| 120 | Doo penitence, and merci axe and have. |
| |
| Queen of comfort, yit whan I me bithinke |
| That I agilt have bothe him and thee, |
| And that my soule is worthi for to sinke, |
| Allas, I caityf, whider may I flee? |
| 125 | Who shal unto thi Sone my mene bee? |
| Who, but thiself, that art of pitee welle? |
| Thou hast more reuthe on oure adversitee |
| Than in this world might any tonge telle. |
| |
| Redresse me, mooder, and me chastise, |
| 130 | For certeynly my Faderes chastisinge, |
| That dar I nouht abiden in no wise, |
| So hidous is his rightful rekenynge. |
| Mooder, of whom oure merci gan to springe, |
| Beth ye my juge and eek my soules leche; |
| 135 | For evere in you is pitee haboundinge |
| To ech that wole of pitee you biseeche. |
| |
| Soth is that God ne granteth no pitee |
| Withoute thee; for God of his goodnesse |
| Foryiveth noon, but it like unto thee. |
| 140 | He hath thee maked vicaire and maistresse |
| Of al this world, and eek governouresse |
| Of hevene, and he represseth his justise |
| After thi wil; and therfore in witnesse |
| He hath thee corowned in so rial wise. |
| |
| 145 | Temple devout, ther God hath his woninge, |
| Fro which these misbileeved deprived been, |
| To you my soule penitent I bringe. |
| Receyve me -- I can no ferther fleen. |
| With thornes venymous, O hevene queen, |
| 150 | For which the eerthe acursed was ful yore, |
| I am so wounded, as ye may wel seen, |
| That I am lost almost, it smert so sore. |
| |
| Virgine, that art so noble of apparaile, |
| And ledest us into the hye tour |
| 155 | Of Paradys, thou me wisse and counsaile |
| How I may have thi grace and thi socour, |
| All have I ben in filthe and in errour. |
| Ladi, unto that court thou me ajourne |
| That cleped is thi bench, O freshe flour, |
| 160 | Ther as that merci evere shal sojourne. |
| |
| Xristus, thi sone, that in this world alighte |
| Upon the cros to suffre his passioun, |
| And eek that Longius his herte pighte |
| And made his herte blood to renne adoun, |
| 165 | And al was this for my salvacioun; |
| And I to him am fals and eek unkynde, |
| And yit he wole not my dampnacioun -- |
| This thanke I yow, socour of al mankynde! |
| |
| Ysaac was figure of his deth, certeyn, |
| 170 | That so fer forth his fader wolde obeye |
| That him ne roughte nothing to be slayn; |
| Right soo thi Sone list as a lamb to deye. |
| Now, ladi ful of merci, I yow preye, |
| Sith he his merci mesured so large, |
| 175 | Be ye not skant, for alle we singe and seye |
| That ye ben from vengeaunce ay oure targe. |
| |
| Zacharie yow clepeth the open welle |
| To wasshe sinful soule out of his gilt. |
| Therfore this lessoun oughte I wel to telle, |
| 180 | That, nere thi tender herte, we were spilt. |
| Now, ladi bryghte, sith thou canst and wilt |
| Ben to the seed of Adam merciable, |
| Bring us to that palais that is bilt |
| To penitentes that ben to merci able. Amen. |
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