The Lyrics of Richard Rolle, Hermit of Hampole
notes
on the text
How to read Rolle's lyric poetry
When you read Middle English poetry, it is almost
imperative that you do so out loud. This will help
you to make intellectual sense of the strange-looking words;
what looks strange to the eye might be more familiar to the
ear. In fact, one of the chief delights of reading
700-year-old English is the aha! of understanding
that comes with this ongoing revelation: Middle English is a
foreign language that you already know. If you have
no formal training in Middle English phonology, that's all
right. It is believed that medieval English vowel sounds
were more or less the same as those in modern European
languages; Rolle wrote these lyrics before (or in the
earliest stages of) the "Great Vowel Shift," after all. So
give vowels the sounds they have in Spanish, say, or
especially German: "a" is always pronounced "ah" as in
"father," "e" is always pronounced "ay" as in "break,"
except when it occurs at the end of a word, in which case it
is pronounced (like the unaccented schwa "uh" sound
as in the German "bitte"); "i" and "y" are always pronounced
"ee" as in "fiend"; "o" is always pronounced "oh" as in
"poem" or, for that matter, "Rolle" (which is, thus,
"Roh-luh"); "u" is always pronounced "oo" as in
"fruit"; "ai" or "ay" are diphthongs pronounced "eye."
Medieval consonants have more or less their modern values,
with a few exceptions: "gh" (whether spelled thus by Rolle,
or as he sometimes does with the archaic yogh) is the
guttural sound of the German or Scottish "ch," a sound no
longer used by most English speakers. Rolle mainly used the
archaic thorn to render the voiced "th" (as in "this" or
"that"), as distinct from the unvoiced "th" of "think" or
"thorn"; modern writers of English don't seem much
impoverished by the lost distinction, and neither will
readers of transliterated medieval texts. There are no
silent consonants, so pronounce the "k" and the "gh" in
"knight": "kuh-neeght."
Yes, read the lyrics aloud. You will
find yourself producing a soft, beautiful sound with an
almost Scandinavian lilt to it. Consider, for example, this
line from Rolle's "Exhortation": "And gherne to gang in
[th]e gate [th]at es withowten ille" (which could be
modernized: "And yearn to go into the gate that is without
evil"). Concentrate on giving the vowels their medieval
values: "Ahnd ghern-uh toh gahng een thuh gah-tuh thaht ays
weethoh-ten ee-luh." Don't exaggerate the vowels too much,
of course; unaccented vowels are softened (made more
schwa-like) as they are in modern French or German (or
English). The pattern of accents is of critical importance
to any line of Rolle's poetry. Generally, the accents fall
two to a phrase, four to a line (as was traditional in Old
and Middle English poetry), and should be quite regular, to
produce a lulling, almost hypnotic rhythm. You have to
get the rhythm to get the sound. Think of each phrase as
a building block of sound, precisely regular in its
dimensions. Think of each line as a rosary bead: a perfect
little sphere of rhythmic prayer, self-contained and
complete.
A second and much more compelling
reason to read Rolle's lyrics aloud is that Rolle was
attempting to recreate aurally what was to him a
mystically aural experience -- he heard this
music as it came to him in the silence of prayer. To engage
Rolle's lyrics solely with the mind through silent reading
is to miss entirely the experience that he has prepared for
you. He understood something -- viscerally, passionately,
spiritually -- that all real poets come to understand:
poetry is an event, and this event occurs in the confluence
of sound and sense.
It is essentially a spiritual
event, because it brings into harmony two realms of
experience that, empirically, have no discernible
connection. Sound represents the world of hard matter, the
world of physical laws and air and energy waves and the
human body. Sense represents the world of abstractions,
ideas, logic. These two worlds are utterly discontinuous
with one another: no science can ever measure, quantify, or
even detect a thought. To be sure, the worlds of matter and
of ideas are in many ways analogous, and in the sloppiness
of our thinking (or is it innate poetry?) we often use the
same terminology for both. An idea is said to "spread like
wildfire"; we're told to "listen to what the body is telling
us."
It's fine to use language as a bridge
between these two distinct aspects of our human experience
. . . but Richard Rolle isn't just playing the
parlor game of finding metaphorical connections between
sense and substance. He's not trying to describe a
spiritual event, but to invoke it -- in himself, in
me, in you. His medium is music -- patterned sound -- and
the very particular kind of music created with rhythmic
language. If you encounter Rolle's lyrics silently,
intellectually, you are sure to find them very dull going
indeed; they are mainly just endless variations on a very
few themes: the joy of divine love, the sorrow of earthly
suffering, the yearning of the soul to unite with God.
Rolle, however, is not interested in making an
intellectually appealing presentation of theological ideas.
Rather, he is not trying to engage the mind at all, but to
disengage it, and thereby release the whole self from
the imperious and self-thwarting claims of the mind. You are
not your mind; you are your mind and your body and
your sensations, all in their various patterns. The deepest
patterns uniting these aspects of the self can be called the
soul; the desire to make these patterns more fully
harmonious can be called the spirit. Similarly, we
can call "prayer" the deliberate attempt to bring the full
self into harmony . . . and paradoxically, as this
attempt "succeeds," it sheds any intellectual sense of
"attempt" or "success," thus loosening the mind's grip and
creating the fertile soil in which contemplation (in
the medieval, mystical sense) can take root.
Rolle's lyrics, then, provide very
little grist for the mind's mill; and this is in perfect
keeping with the more or less legendary account of his
leaving Oxford in disgust with its intellectualism, its
scholastic nitpicking, its attempts to convey heavenly
truths through mind games. In short, the lyrics are
boring -- in the sense that they don't much engage
the analytical mind. But in exactly this way a recipe, as a
literary artifact, is boring too, and religious
critics who find Rolle's lyrics shallow or repetitious are
like food critics who leaf through a cookbook and pronounce
the food "unimaginative" because nearly every dish lists
salt amongst the ingredients. They're just thinking, not
cooking or tasting, and certainly they're not getting
themselves nourished. They're missing the point.
Rolle's lyrics are not recipes for ideas; they are
recipes for sounds that will lull the mind, soothe
the ear, and -- God willing -- bring the entire
mind/body/spirit/soul self into greater harmony with itself
and with God. When this occurs to a superlative degree it is
called "rapture," and this, not literary or intellectual
"success," is Rolle's goal. To harmonize physical sensations
of sight and sound is to encounter beauty; to harmonize
sight and sound and thought and emotion is to encounter the
divine, and this is the essence of Rolle's (or anyone's)
mysticism.
So make the sound -- read these
lyrics aloud, sing the patterns of rhythmic sound, feel the
poet's emotions without analyzing them, look with new,
unjudging eyes on the images of Christ crucified and
heaven's splendor. These lyrics are fabulously beautiful
artifacts of the spirit. Don't just think about them
-- hear them!
© Michael Fleming
Temecula, California
December, 1998
[to top of page]
notes on the text
[The following note on the text of the lyrics, as well as
the lyrics themselves, are gratefully borrowed from H. E.
Allen, ed. English Writings of Richard Rolle. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1963. MF]
The Cambridge MS. Dd. v. 64, Pt. iii, from which the
lyrics and epistles are printed, is a Northern volume,
seeming by its rare texts and unique colophons to give
evidence of having had recourse to superior sources of
information. It was in York in the seventeenth century. The
Longleat MS. 29 containing some of the lyrics and other rare
pieces is a Southern copy giving all the epistles and some
lyrics, along with Gastly Gladnesse and Desyre and
Delit, under the general title 'Tractatus Ricardi
heremite ad margaretam de kyrkeby Reclusam de vita
contemplatiua' (in the heading), or 'Tractatus Ricardi
heremite de hampoll ad margaretam Reclusam de kyrkby de
amore dei' (in the colophon). It would seem most unlikely
that the three epistles were all written for the same
person, and probably the notes of the Longleat scribe are
derived from an autograph volume copied by Rolle from
various sources: in the collection ascribed to him an
enlarged text is included of the old ecstatic lyric:
Ihesu swet, nowe wil I synge
. . . ,
of which the earliest copies certainly antedate his time.
The titles here given to the lyrics are none of them
original. Some were given by me, some taken over from
Professor Brown's edition. The Lambeth and Thornton copies
of lyrics cited in collation occur without any sign of
authorship.
[Note on the Middle English text: all thorns have been
rendered as "[th]"; all yoghs have been rendered as "[g]" or
"[gh]." MF]
[to top of page]
The Lyrics of Richard Rolle, Hermit of Hampole
Exhortation
[A]ll synnes sal [th]ou hate thorow castyng of skylle,
And gherne to gang in [th]e gate [th]at es withowten
ille.
Tumbyl noght fra the state [th]at [th]ou hase tane [th]e
tille;
It ledes til [th]e kynges [g]hate, [th]are [th]ou may
layke [th]i fille.
Here if [th]ou punysch [th]e, welth sall [th]ow wynne.
Na wonder it es, if [th]ou be in sorow for [th]i synne.
Somme says [th]ai may se, and blynd ar wythinne;
And if [th]ai now be sett fre, dede sall [th]am twynne.
Dede dynges al sa sare, [th]at nane may defende;
And makes many ill to fare, when [th]ai not wende.
I wate nane [th]at he will spare; with all will he lende.
For[th]i of synn make [th]e bare, [th]ou knawes not [th]i
ende.
Now may we qwake trembiland, for drede to law ly.
[Th]e beme blawes at owre hand, [th]e dome es fast by.
[Th]e keyng comes with hys hoste, to fell his enmy;
And al [th]e prowde wyth [th]air boste he demes to dy.
Me thynkes it rynges in mi nere: 'Dede ryse, to be
demed!'
Bot hym [th]e devel may noght dere, [th]at here hase
Criste qwemed.
Al [th]e wikked in [th]at were til hel fire es flemed.
[Th]e keyng hymself schot [th]e spere, for hym it best
semed.
[Th]at day owre joy sal begyn, [th]at here suffers pyne;
Owre flesch wytt of mykel wyn and bryght as sonn schyne.
Owre setels heven ar within, me lyst sytt in myne.
Lufe Criste and hate syn, and sa purches [th]e [th]ine.
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A Song of Mercy
Mercy es maste in my mynde, for mercy es [th]at I mast
prayse.
Mercy es curtayse and kynde; fra al mischeves he mai me
rayse.
Allas, sa lang I have bene blynd, and walked will
alwayse.
Mercy walde I fayne fynd, to lede me in my last dayse.
Mercy, lede me at [th]e last, when I owt of [th]is world
sal wende;
To [th]e cryand I trayst fast, [th]at kou save me fra
[th]e fende.
Mercy es trew as any stele, when it es ryght up soght.
Whasa will mercy fele, seke it, for it fayles noght.
Mercy es syght of al my hele, [th]erfore I have it mast
in thoght.
Mercy likes me sa wele, for thorogh mercy was I boght.
I ne wate what I may do or say til mercy, [th]at es ay sa
gode.
[Th]ou graunte mercy, [th]at mercy may, [th]at es my
solace and my fode.
Mercy walde I fayne honowre, it es sa swete unto my
syght.
It lyes in my Creatoure, [th]at made us of his awen
myght.
Mercy es al my socoure, til lede me to [th]e land of
lyght,
0 And bring me til [th]e rial toure, whare I mai se mi
God sa brygh[t].
God of al, Lorde and Keyng, I pray [th]e, Jhesu, be my
frende,
Sa [th]at I may [th]i mercy syng in [th]i blys withowten
ende.
Mercy es sa hegh a poynt, [th]ar may na syn it suppryse.
To [th]i mercy es my hert joynt, for [th]erin al my
likyng lyse.
Lord, lat it noght be aloynt, when [th]ou sal sett [th]i
gret assyse.
With [th]i mercy my sawle anoynt, when I sal come to
[th]i jugise.
Til [th]e Juge sal I come, bot I wate noght my day.
Mercy es bath al and some [th]arin I trayst and after
pray.
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Song of Love-longing to Jesus
[J]hesu, God sonn, Lord of mageste,
Send wil to my hert anly to covayte [th]e.
Reve me lykyng of [th]is land, my lufe [th]at [th]ou may
be.
Take my hert intill [th]i hand, sett me in stabylte.
Jhesu, [th]e mayden sonn, [th]at wyth [th]i blode me
boght,
Thyrl my sawule wyth [th]i spere, [th]at mykel luf in men
hase wroght.
Me langes, lede me to [th]i lyght, and festen in [th]e al
my thoght.
In [th]i swetnes fyll my hert, my wa make wane till
noght.
Jhesu, my God, Jhesu my keyng, forsake noght my desyre.
My thoght make it to be meke, I hate bath pryde and ire.
[Th]i wil es my [g]hernyng; of lufe [th]ou kyndel [th]e
fyre,
[Th]at I in swet lovyng with aungels take my hyre.
Wounde my hert within, and welde it at [th]i wille.
On blysse, [th]at never sal blyn, [th]ou gar me fest me
skylle.
[Th]at I [th]i lufe may wyn, of grace my thoght [th]ou
fylle,
And make me clene of syn, [th]at I may come [th]e tyll.
Rote it in my hert, [th]e memor of [th]i pyne;
In sekenes and in qwert [th]i lufe be ever myne.
My joy es al of [th]e; my sawle, take it as [th]ine.
My lufe ay waxand be, sa [th]at it never dwyne.
My sang es in syghyng, whil I dwel in [th]is way,
My lyfe es in langyng, [th]at byndes me, nyght and day,
Til I come til my kyng, [th]at I won with hym may,
And se his fayre schynyng, and lyfe [th]at lastes ay.
Langyng es in me lent, for lufe [th]at I ne kan lete.
My lufe, it hase me schent, [th]at ilk a bale may bete.
Sen [th]at my hert was brent in Cryste lufe sa swete,
Al wa fra me es went, and we sal never mete.
I sytt and syng of lufe langyng, [th]at in my hert es
bred.
Jhesu, my keyng and my joyng, why ne war I to [th]e led?
Ful wele I wate in al my state, in joy I sulde be fed.
Jhesu, me bryng til [th]i wonyng, for blode [th]at [th]ou
hase sched.
Derned he was to hyng, [th]e faire aungels fode.
Ful sare [th]ai gan hym swyng, when [th]at he bunden
stode.
His bak was in betyng, and spylt hys blissed blode;
[Th]e thorn corond [th]e keyng, [th]at nayled was on
[th]e rode.
Whyte was his naked breste, and rede his blody syde;
Wan was his faire face, his woundes depe and wyde.
[Th]e Jewyis wald not wande to pyne hym in [th]at tyde;
Als streme dose of [th]e strande, his blode gan downe
glyde.
Blynded was his faire ene, his flesch blody for bette.
His lufsum lyf was layde ful low, and saryful umbesette.
Dede and lyf began to stryf whe[th]er myght maystre mare,
When aungels brede was dampned to dede, to safe oure
sauls sare.
Lyf was slayne, and rase agayne; in fairehede may we fare
;
And dede es broght til litel or noght, and kasten in
endles kare.
On hym, [th]at [th]e boght, hafe al [th]i thoght, and
lede [th]e in his lare.
Gyf al [th]i hert til Crist [th]i qwert, and lufe hym
evermare.
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A Song of the Love of Jesus
Luf es lyf [th]at lastes ay, [th]ar it in Criste es feste
For wele ne wa it chaunge may, als wryten has men
wyseste.
[Th]e nyght it tournes intil [th]e day, [th]i travel
intyll reste.
If [th]ou wil luf [th]us as I say, [th]ou may be wyth
[th]e beste.
Lufe es thoght, wyth grete desyre, of a fayre lovyng.
Lufe I lyken til a fyre, [th]at sloken may na thyng.
Lufe us clenses of oure syn, lufe us bote sall bryng.
Lufe [th]e keynges hert may wyn, lufe of joy may syng.
[Th]e settel of lufe es lyft hee, for intil heven it
ranne.
Me thynk in erth it es sle, [th]at makes men pale and
wanne.
[Th]e bede of blysse it gase ful nee, I tel [th]e, as I
kanne,
[Th]of us thynk [th]e way be dregh; luf copuls God and
manne.
Lufe es hatter [th]en [th]e cole, lufe may nane beswyke.
[Th]e flawme of lufe, wha myght it thole, if it war ay
ilyke?
Luf us comfortes and mase in qwart, and lyftes tyl heven
ryke.
Luf ravysches Cryste intyl owr hert; I wate na lust it
lyke.
Lere to luf, if [th]ou wyl lyfe, when [th]ou sall hethen
fare.
All [th]i thoght til hym [th]ou gyf, [th]at may [th]e
kepe fra kare.
Loke [th]i hert fra hym noght twyn, if [th]ou in wandreth
ware;
Sa [th]ou may hym welde and wyn, and luf hym evermare.
Jhesu, [th]at me lyfe hase lent, intil [th]i lufe me
bryng.
Take til [th]e al myne entent, [th]at [th]ow be my
[g]hernyng.
Wa fra me away war went, and comne war my covaytyng,
If [th]at my sawle had herd and hent [th]e sang of [th]i
lovyng.
[Th]i lufe es ay lastand, fra [th]at we may it fele.
[Th]arein make me byrnand, [th]at na thyng gar it kele.
My thoght take into [th]i hand, and stabyl it ylk a dele,
[Th]at I be noght heldand to luf [th]is worldes wele.
If I lufe any erthly thyng [th]at payes to my wyll,
And settes my joy and my lykyng when it may come me tyll,
I mai drede of partyng, [th]at wyll be hate and yll;
For al my welth es bot wepyng, when pyne mi saule sal
spyll.
[Th]e joy [th]at men hase sene es lyckend tyl [th]e haye,
[Th]at now es fayre and grene, and now wytes awaye.
Swylk es [th]is worlde, I wene, and bees till domes daye
All in travel and tene; fle [th]at na man it maye.
If [th]ou luf in all [th]i thoght, and hate [th]e fylth
of syn,
And gyf hym [th]i sawle, [th]at it boght, [th]at he [th]e
dwell within;
Als Crist [th]i sawle hase soght, and [th]erof walde
noght blyn,
Sa [th]ou sal to blys be broght, and heven won within.
[Th]e kynd of luf es [th]is, [th]ar it es trayst and
trew:
To stand styll in stabylnes, and chaunge it for na new.
[Th]e lyfe [th]at lufe myght fynd, or ever in hert it
knew,
Fra kare it tornes [th]at kyend, and lendes in myrth and
glew.
For now lufe [th]ow, I rede, Cryste, as I [th]e tell,
And with aungels take [th]i stede; [th]at joy loke [th]ou
noght sell.
In erth [th]ow hate, I rede, all [th]at [th]i lufe may
fell;
For luf es stalworth as [th]e dede, luf es hard as hell.
Luf es a lyght byrthen, lufe gladdes [gh]ong and alde;
Lufe es withowten pyne, als lofers hase me talde.
Lufe es a gastly wynne, [th]at makes men bygge and balde.
Of lufe sal he na thyng tyne, [th]at hit in hert will
halde.
Lufe es [th]e swettest thyng [th]at man in erth hase
tane;
Lufe es Goddes derlyng; lufe byndes blode and bane.
In lufe be owre lykyng, I ne wate na better wane.
For me and my lufyng, lufe makes bath be ane.
Bot fleschly lufe sal fare as dose [th]e flowre in May,
And lastand be na mare [th]an ane houre of a day;
And sythen syghe ful sare [th]ar lust, [th]ar pryde,
[th]ar play,
When [th]ai er casten in kare til [th]yne [th]at lastes
ay.
When [th]air bodys lyse in syn, [th]air sawls mai qwake
and drede,
For up sal ryse al men, and answer for [th]air dede.
If [th]ai be fonden in syn, als now [th]air lyfe [th]ai
lede,
[Th]ai sal sytt hel within, and myrknes hafe to mede.
Riche men [th]air handes sal wryng; and wicked werkes sal
by,
In flawme of fyre, bath knyght and keyng, with sorow
schamfully.
If [th]ou wil lufe, [th]an may [th]ou syng til Cryst in
melody.
[Th]e lufe of hym overcoms al thyng; [th]arto [th]ou
traiste trewly.
Sygh and sob, bath day and nyght, for ane sa fayre of
hew.
[Th]ar es na thyng my hert mai light, bot lufe, [th]at es
ay new.
Whasa had hym in his syght, or in his hert hym knew,
His mournyng turned til joy ful bryght, his sang intil
glew.
In myrth he lyfes, nyght and day, [th]at lufes [th]at
swete chylde;
It es Jhesu, forsoth I say, of all mekest and mylde.
Wreth fra hyrn walde at away, [th]of he wer never sa
wylde,
He [th]at in hert lufed hym, [th]at day fra evel he wil
hym schylde.
Of Jhesu mast lyst me speke, [th]at al my bale may bete.
Me thynk my hert may al to breke, when I thynk on [th]at
swete.
In lufe lacyd he hase my thoght, [th]at sal I never
forgete.
Ful dere, me thynk, he hase me boght, with blodi hende
and fete.
For luf my hert es bowne to brest, when I [th]at faire
behalde.
Lufe es fair, [th]are it es fest, [th]at never will be
calde.
Lufe us reves [th]e nyght rest, in grace it makes us
balde.
Of al warkes luf es [th]e best, als haly men me talde.
Na wonder gyf I syghand be and sithen in sorow be sette.
Jhesu was nayled apon [th]e tre, and al blody for bette.
To thynk on hym es grete pyte, how tenderly he grette.
[Th]is hase he sufferde, man, for [th]e, if [th]at [th]ou
syn wyll lette.
[Th]ar es na tonge in erth may tell of lufe [th]e
swetnesse.
[Th]at stedfastly in lufe kan dwell, his joy es endlesse.
God schylde [th]at he sulde til hell, [th]at lufes and
langand es,
Or ever his enmys sulde hym qwell, or make his luf be
lesse.
Jhesu es lufe [th]at tastes ay, til hym es owre langyng.
Jhesu [th]e nyght turnes to [th]e day, [th]e dawyng intil
spryng.
Jhesu, thynk on us now and ay, for [th]e we halde oure
keyng.
Jhesu, gyf us grace, as [th]ou wel may, to luf [th]e
withowten endyng.
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A Salutation to Jesus
Heyle Jhesu my creatowre, of sorowyng medi cyne!
Heyle Jhesu, mi saveowre, [th]at for me sufferd pyne!
Heyle Jhesu, helpe and sokowre, my lufe be ay [th]ine!
Heyle Jhesu, [th]e blyssed flowre of [th]i moder virgyne!
Heyle Jhesu, leder to lyght! In saule [th]ou ert ful
swete.
[Th]i luf schynes day and nyght, [th]at strenghes me in
[th]is strete.
Lene me langyng to [th]i sight, and gif me grace til
grete;
For [th]ou, Jhesu, hase [th]at myght, [th]at al my bale
may bete.
Jhesu, [th]i grace my hert enspyre, [th]at me til blis
mai bryng!
On [th]e I sette at my desyre, [th]ou ert my luf langyng.
[Th]i luf es byrnand als [th]e fyre, [th]at ever on he
wil spryng.
Far fro me put pride and ire, for [th]am I luf na thyng.
Heile Jhesu, price of my prayer, Lorde of mageste!
[Th]ou art joy [th]at tastes ay, all delyte [th]ou art to
se.
Gyf me grace, als [th]ou wel may, [th]i lufer for to be.
My langyng wendes never away, til [th]at I come til
[th]e.
Jhesu, to lufe ay be me lefe, [th]at es my gastly gode.
Allas, my God es, als a thefe, nayled til [th]e rode.
Hys tender vayns begyns to brest, al rennes of blode.
Handes and fete with nayles er fest ; [th]at chawnges mi
mode.
Jhesu, mi keyng, es me ful dere, [th]at with his blode me
boght.
Of spittyng spred es al [th]at clere, to dede with betyng
broght.
For me he tholed [th]ies payns sere, [th]e whilk wreche
he wroght.
For[th]i [th]ai sitt my hert ful nere, [th]at I forgete
[th]am noght.
Jhesu, fortune of ilk a fyght, [th]ou graunt me grace to
spede,
[Th]at I may lufe [th]e ryght, and have [th]e to my mede.
[Th]i luf es fast in ilk a fandyng, and ever at al owre
nede.
Als thurgh [th]i grace art my [g]hernyng, intil [th]i
lyght me lede.
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The Nature of Love
[A]ll vanitese forsake, if [th]ou his lufe will fele.
[Th]i hert til hym [th]ou take, he kan it kepe sa wele.
[Th]e myrth na man may make, of God es ilk a dele.
[Th]i thoght lat it noght qwake, [th]i lufe lat it not
kele.
Of synne [th]e bitternes, [th]ou fle ay fast [th]erfra.
[Th]is worldes wikkednes, let it noght with [th]e ga.
[Th]is erthly bisynes, [th]at wirkes men sa wa,
[Th]i lufe it wyll make lesse, if [th]ou it with [th]e
ta.
All we lufe sum thyng, [th]at knawyng hase of skyll,
And haves [th]erin likyng, when it mai come us tyll.
For[th]i do Crystes biddyng, and lufe hym, as he wyll,
And with lufe [th]at hase na endyng [th]i hert he wil
fulfyll.
[Th]ai [th]at lufes fleschly er lickend til [th]e swyne.
In fylth [th]ai lat [th]aim ly, [th]aire fairehed wil
[th]ai tyne.
[Th]air luf partes porely, and putted es to pyne.
Swetter es luf gastly, [th]at nevermare wil dwyne.
If [th]ou luf, whils [th]at [th]ou may, [th]e keyng of
majeste,
[Th]i wa wendes away, [th]i hele hyes to [th]e,
[Th]e nyght turnes intil day, [th]i joy sall ever be.
When [th]ou ert as I [th]e say, I pray [th]e thynk on me.
Owre hedes sal we sett togydyr, in heven to dwell;
For [th]are [th]e gode ar mett, [th]at Cryste haldes fra
hell.
When we owre synnes have grett, [th]en tythans may we
tell
[Th]at we fra fer haves fett [th]e lufe [th]at nane may
fell.
[Th]e world, cast it behynd, and say: 'Jhesu, my swete,
Fast in [th]i lufe me bynd, and gyf me grace to grete,
To lufe [th]e over al thyng; for ay to lufe I hete,
[Th]at I [th]i lufe may fynd, [th]at wele my bale may
bete.
Wyth Me wounde me within, and til [th]i lyght me lede.
[Th]ou make me clene of synne, [th]at I [th]e ded noght
drede.
Als [th]ou to save mankyn sufferd [th]i sydes blede,
Gyf me wytt to wyn [th]e syght of [th]e to mede.'
His luf es trayst and trew, whasa hym lufand ware.
Sen fyrst [th]at I it knew, hit keped me fra kare.
I fand it ever new to lere me Goddes lare;
And now thar me not rew [th]at I have sufferd sare.
In lufe [th]i hert [th]ou hye, and fande to fell [th]e
fende.
[Th]i dayes sal be undregh, [th]at [th]e na sorow
schende.
When [th]e dede neghes negh, and [th]ou sall hethen wende
[Th]ou sal hym se wyth hegh, and come til Cryste [th]i
frende.
Aforce [th]e for to fest in Cryst [th]i covaytyng,
And chese hym for [th]e best, he es [th]i weddyd keyng.
For joy [th]i hert burd brest, to have swylk a swetyng.
Of al I hald it werst to luf another thyng.
His lufe es lyf of all [th]at wele lyvand may be.
[Th]ou sted hym in [th]i stal, lat hym noght fra [th]e
fle.
Ful sone he wil [th]e call ([th]i setell es made for
[th]e),
And have [th]e in his hall, ever his face to se.
[Th]is mede for [th]e I say, [th]at [th]ou kyndel [th]i
thoght,
And make [th]e lufe verray in hym, [th]at [th]e hase
wroght.
For al [th]at lufe hym may and [th]ai [th]arof will noght
--
Tyl pyne turnes [th]ar play, [th]amself hase it soght.
Syn [th]at es sa sowre, gyf it in [th]e na gyrth.
Of lufe take [th]e flowre, [th]at [th]ou may layke [th]e
wyth;
Swetter es [th]at savowre [th]an any felde or freth.
Sett hym in [th]i sokowre, [th]at lennes [th]e lym and
lyth.
Take Jhesu in [th]i thynkyng, his lufe he will [th]e
send.
[Th]i lufe and [th]i lykyng, in hym [th]ou lat it lend.
And use [th]e in praiyng, [th]arin [th]ou may be mend,
Swa [th]at [th]ow hafe [th]i keyng in joy withowten
endyng.
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Gastly Gladnesse: A Prose Lyric
Gastly Gladnesse in Jhesu, and joy in hert, with swetnes
in sawle of [th]e savor of heven in hope, es helth intil
hele; and my lyfe lendes in luf, and lyghtsumnes unlappes my
thoght. I drede noght, [th]at me may wyrk wa, sa mykel I
wate of wele. It war na wonder if dede war dere, [th]at I
myght se hym [th]at I seke. Bot now it es lenthed fra me,
and me behoves lyf here, til he wil me lese. Lyst and lere
of [th]is lare, and [th]e sal noght myslike. Lufe makes me
to melle, and joy gars me jangell. Loke [th]ow lede [th]i
lyf in lyghtsumnes; and hevynes, helde it away. Sarynes, lat
it noght sytt wyth [th]e; bot in gladnes of God evermare
make [th]ow [th]i gle. Amen. Expliciunt cantica divini
amoris secundum Ricardum Hampole. Item secundum eundem
Ricardum:
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Thy Joy be in the Love of Jesus
Thy joy be ilk a dele to serve [th]i God to pay;
For al [th]is worldes wele, [th]ou sees, wytes away.
[Th]ou fande his lufe to fele, [th]at last with [th]e
will ay;
And [th]i kare sal kele, [th]i pyne turne [th]e to play.
In Cryst [th]ou cast [th]i thoght, [th]ou hate all wreth
and pryde,
And thynk how he [th]e boght with woundes depe and wyde.
When [th]ou hymself hase soght, wele [th]e sal betyde.
Of ryches rek [th]e noght, fra hell bot he [th]e hyde.
Do als I [th]e rede, lyftand up [th]i hert,
And say til hym was dede: 'Cryste, myne hele [th]ou ert.'
Syn synkes as lede, and fer downe fals fra qwert.
[Th]arfore stabyl [th]i stede, [th]ar smytyng may noght
smert.
In Cryste knyt [th]i solace, hys lufe chawnge [th]i
chere;
With joy [th]ou take his trace, and seke to sytt hym
nere.
Ever sekand his face, [th]ou make [th]i sawle clere.
He ordans hegh [th]i place, yf [th]ou his lufe will lere.
[Th]ou kepe his byddyngs ten; hald [th]e fra dedely
synne;
Forsake [th]e joy of men, [th]at [th]ou his lufe may
wynne.
[Th]i hert of hym sal bren with lufe [th]at never sal
twynne.
Langyng he wil [th]e Ien heven to won withinne.
[Th]ou thynk on hys mekenes, how pore he was borne.
Behald, his blody flesch es prikked wit thorne.
[Th]i lufe, lat it noght lesse. He saved [th]at was
forlorne.
To serve hym in swetnes all have we sworne.
If [th]ou be in fandyng, of lufe [th]ou hase grete nede
To stedde in stallyng, and gyf [th]e grace to spede.
[Th]ow dwell ay with [th]i kyng, in hys lufe [th]e fede;
For lityll have I connyng to tel of his fairhede.
Bot luf hym at [th]i myght, whils [th]ou ert lyvand here;
And loke unto [th]i syght, [th]at nane be [th]e so dere.
Say to hym, bath day and nyght: 'When mai I negh [th]e
nere?
Bryng me to [th]i lyght, [th]i melodi to here.'
In [th]at lyfe [th]e stedde, [th]at [th]ou be ay lyvand;
And gyf hym lufe to wedde, [th]at [th]ou with hym wil
stand.
Joy in [th]i brest es bredde, when [th]ou ert hym lufand.
[Th]i sawle [th]an hase he fedde, in swete lufe brennand.
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[M]edita[cio] de pas[si]one Christi
My keyng, [th]at water grette and blode swette;
Sythen ful sare bette, so [th]at hys blode hym wette,
When [th]air scowrges mette.
Ful fast [th]ai gan hym dyng and at [th]e pyler swyng,
And his fayre face defowlyng with spittyng.
[Th]e thorne crownes [th]e keyng; ful sare es [th]at
prickyng.
Alas! my joy and my swetyng es derned to hyng,
Nayled was his handes, nayled was hys fete,
And thyrled was hys syde, so semely and so swete.
Naked es his whit breste, and rede es his blody syde;
Wan was his fayre hew, his wowndes depe and wyde.
In fyve stedes of his flesch [th]e blode gan downe glyde
Als stremes of [th]e strande; hys pyne es noght to hyde.
[Th]is to see es grete pyte, how he es demed to [th]e
dede
And nayled on [th]e rode tre, [th]e bryght aungels brede.
Dryven he was to dole, [th]at es owre gastly gude,
And alsso in [th]e blys of heven es al [th]e aungels
fude.
A wonder it es to se, wha sa understude,
How God of mageste was dyand on [th]e rude.
Bot suth [th]an es it sayde [th]at lufe ledes [th]e ryng;
[Th]at hym sa law hase layde bot lufe it was na thyng.
Jhesu, receyve my hert, and to [th]i lufe me bryng;
Al my desyre [th]ou ert, I covete [th]i comyng.
[Th]ow make me clene of synne, and lat us never twyn.
Kyndel me fire within, [th]at I [th]i lufe may wyn,
And se [th]i face, Jhesu, in joy [th]at never sal blyn.
Jhesu, my saule [th]ou mend; [th]i lufe into me send,
[Th]at I may with [th]e lend in joy withowten end.
In lufe [th]ow wownde my thoght, and lyft my hert to
[th]e.
My sawle [th]ou dere hase boglit; [th]i lufer make it to
be.
[Th]e I covete, [th]is worlde noght, and for it I fle.
[Th]ou ert [th]at I have soght, [th]i face when may I
see?
[Th]ow make my sawle clere, for lufe chawnges my chere.
How lang sal I be here?
[When mai I negh [th]e nere, [th]i melody to here,]
Oft to here sang,
[Th]at es lastand so lang?
[Th]ou be my lufyng,
[Th]at I lufe may syng.
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Can[tus] am[oris] 1
My sange es in syhtyng, my lyfe es in langynge,
Til I [th]e se, my keyng, so fayre in [th]i schynyng,
So fayre in [th]i fayrehede.
Intil [th]i lyght me lede, and in [th]i lufe me fede,
In lufe make me to spede, [th]at [th]ou be ever my mede.
When wil [th]ou come, Jhesu my joy,
And cover me of kare,
And gyf me [th]e, [th]at I may se,
Lifand evermare?
Al my coveytyng war commen, if I myght til [th]e fare.
I wil na thyng bot anely [th]e, [th]at all my will ware.
Jhesu my savyoure, Jhesu my comfortoure,
Of al my fayrnes flowre, my helpe and my sokoure,
When may I se [th]i towre?
When wil [th]ou me kall? me langes to [th]i hall,
To se [th]e [th]an al; [th]i luf, lat it not fal.
My hert payntes [th]e pall [th]at steds us in stal.
Now wax I pale and wan for luf of my lemman.
Jhesu, bath God and man, [th]i luf [th]ou lerd me [th]an
When I to [th]e fast ran; for[th]i now I lufe kan.
I sytt and syng of luf langyng [th]at in my breste es
bredde.
Jhesu, Jhesu, Jhesu, when war I to [th]e ledde?
Full wele I wate, [th]ou sees my state; in lufe my thoght
es stedde.
When I [th]e se, and dwels with [th]e, [th]an am I fylde
and fedde.
Jhesu, [th]i lufe es fest, and me to lufe thynk best.
My hert, when may it brest to come to [th]e, my rest ?
Jhesu, Jhesu, Jhesu, til [th]e it es [th]at I morne
For my lyfe and my lyvyng. When may I hethen torne?
Jhesu, my dere and my drewry, delyte ert [th]ou, to syng.
Jhesu, my myrth and melody, when will [th]ow com, my
keyng?
Jhesu, my hele and my hony, my whart and my com fortyng,
Jhesu, I covayte for to dy when it es [th]i payng.
Langyng es in me lent [th]at my lufe hase me sent.
Al wa es fra me went, sen [th]at my bert es brent
In Criste lufe sa swete [th]at never I wil lete,
Bot ever to luf I hete; for lufe my bale may bete,
And til hys blis me bryng, and gyf me my [gh]ernyng,
Jhesu, my lufe, my swetyng.
Langyng es in me lyght, [th]at byndes me, day and nyght,
Til I it hafe in syght, his face sa fayre and bryght.
Jhesu, my hope, my hele, my joy ever ilk a dele,
[Th]i luf lat it noght kele, [th]at I [th]i luf may fele
And won with [th]e in wele.
Jhesu, with [th]e I byg and belde; lever me war to dy
[Th]an al [th]is worlde to welde and hafe it in maystry.
When wil [th]ou rew on me, Jhesu, [th]at I myght with
[th]e be,
To lufe and lok on [th]e?
My setell ordayne for me, and sett [th]ou me [th]arin;
For [th]en moun we never twyn.
And I [th]i lufe sal syng thorow syght of [th]i schynyng
In heven withowten endyng.
Amen.
Explicit tractatus Ricardi heremite de Hampole,
scriptus cuidam moniali de [Gh]edyngham.
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from The Form of Living
Loved be [th]ou, keyng,
and thanked be [th]ou, keyng,
and blyssed be [th]ou, keyng,
Jhesu, all my joyng,
of all [th]i giftes gude,
[th]at for me spylt [th]i blude
and died on [th]e rode;
[th]ou gyf me grace to syng
[th]e sang of [th]i lovyng.
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cantus a[moris] 2
When will [th]ow com to comforth me, and bryng me owt of
care,
And gyf me [th]e, [th]at I may se, havand evermare?
[Th]i lufe es ay swettest of al [th]at ever war.
My hert, when sal it brest for lufe? [Th]an languyst I na
mare.
For lufe my thoght has fest, and I am fayne to fare.
I stand in still mowrnyng. Of all lufelyst of lare
Es lufe langyng, it drawes me til my day,
[Th]e band of swete byrnyng, for it haldes me ay
Fra place and fra plaiyng til [th]at I get may
[Th]e syght of my swetyng, [th]at wendes never away.
In welth bees oure wakyng wythowten noy or nyght.
My lufe es in lastyng, and langes to [th]at syght.
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