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The Wakefield Master
Secunda Pagina Pastorum



f 38r
Explicit Vna pagina pastorum

Incipit Alia eorundem

Primus Pastor: Coll
Secundus Pastor: Gyb
Tercius Pastor: Daw
Vxor ejus: Gyll
Christ Child]

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Lord, what these weders are cold!
And I am yll happyd;
I am nerehande dold,
So long haue I nappyd;
My legys thay fold,
My fyngers ar chappyd,
It is not as I wold,
For I am al lappyd
In sorow.
In stormes and tempest,
Now in the eest, now in the west,
Wo is hym has neuer rest
Mydday nor morow!

Bot we sely husbandys
That walkys on the moore,
In fayth we ar nerehandys
Outt of the doore.
f 38v
No wonder, as it standys,
If we be poore,
For the tylthe of oure landys
Lyys falow as the floore,
As ye ken.
We ar so hamyd,
Fortaxed and ramyd,
We ar mayde handtamyd,
With thyse gentlery-men.

Thus thay refe vs oure rest
Oure Lady theym wary!
These men that ar lord-fest
Thay cause the ploghe tary;
That, men say, is for the best -
We fynde it contrary.
Thus ar husbandys opprest,
In ponte to myscary
On lyfe.
Thus hold, thay vs hunder,
Thus thay bryng vs in blonder;
It were greatte wonder
And euer shuld we thryfe.

For may he gett a paynt slefe
Or a broche now-on-dayes,
Wo is hym that hym grefe
Or onys agane-says!
Dar noman hym reprefe
What mastry he mays;
And yit may noman lefe
Oone word that he says -
No letter.
He can make purveance
With boste and bragance,
And all is thrugh mantenance
Of men that are gretter.

Ther shall com a swane
As prowde as a po;
He must borow my wane,
My ploghe also;
Then I am full fane
To graunt or he go.
Thus lyf we in payne
Anger, and wo,
By nyght and day.
He must haue if he langyd,
If I shuld, forgang it;
I were better be hangyd
Then oones say hym nay.

It dos me good, as I walk
Thus by myn oone,
Of this warld for to talk
In maner of mone.
To my shepe wyll I stalk
And herkyn anone,
Ther abyde on a balk
Or sytt on a stone
Full soyne;
For I trowe, perdé,
Trew men if thay be,
We gett more compané
Or it be noyne.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Bensté and Dominus,
What may this bemeyne?
Why fares this warld thus?
Oft haue we not sene.
Lord, thyse weders ar spytus
And the wyndys full kene.
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And the frostys so hydus
Thay water myn eeyne,
No ly.
Now in dry, now in wete,
Now in snaw, now in slete,
When my shone freys to my fete,
It is not all esy.

Bot as far as I ken
Or yit as I go,
We sely wedmen
Dre mekyll wo:
We haue sorow then and then;
It fallys oft so.
Sely Copyle, oure hen,
Both to and fro
She kakyls;
Bot begyn she to crok,
To groyne or to clok,
Wo is hym is of oure cok,
For he is in the shakyls.

These men that ar wed
Haue not all thare wyll;
When they ar full hard sted,
Thay sygh full styll.
God wayte thay ar led
Full hard and full yll;
In bowere nor in bed
Thay say noght thertyll
This tyde.
My parte haue I fun,
I know my lesson:
Wo is hym that is bun,
For he must abyde.

Bot now late in oure lyfys
A meruell to me,
That I thynk my hart ryfys
Sich wonders to see;
What that destany dryfys
It shuld so be -
Som men wyll haue two wyfys
And som men thre
In store;
Som ar wo that has any.
Bot so far can I:
Wo is hym that has many,
For he felys sore.

Bot, yong men, of wowyng,
For God that you boght,
Be well war of wedyng,
And thynk in youre thoght,
«Had-I-wyst» is a thyng
It seruys of noght.
Mekyll styll mowrnyng
Has wedyng home broght,
And grefys,
With many a sharp showre;
For thou may cach in an owre
That shall sow the full sowre
As long as thou lyffys.

For, as euer red I pystyll,
I haue oone to my fere
As sharp as a thystyll
As rugh as a brere;
She is browyd lyke a brystyll,
With a sowre-loten chere;
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Had she oones wett hyr whystyll,
She couth syng full clere
Hyr Paternoster.
She is as greatt as a whall,
She has a galon of gall;
By hym that dyed for vs all,
I wald I had ryn to I had lost hir!

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
God looke ouer the raw,
Full defly ye stand!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Yee, the dewill in thi maw,
So tariand!
Sagh thou awre of Daw?
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Yee, on a ley-land
Hard I hym blaw.
He commys here at hand,
Not far.
Stand styll.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
For he commys, hope I.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
He wyll make vs both a ly
Bot if we be war.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Crystys crosse me spede,
And Sant Nycholas!
Therof had I nede;
It is wars then it was.
Whoso couthe take hede
And lett the warld pas,
It is euer in drede
And brekyll as glas,
And slythys.
This warld fowre neuer so,
With meruels mo and mo:
Now in weyll, now in wo,
And all thyng wrythys.

Was neuer syn Noe floode
Sich floodys seyn,
Wyndys and ranys so rude,
And stormes so keyn
Som stamerd, som stod
In dowte, as I weyn.
Now God turne all to good!
I say as I mene,
For ponder:
These floodys so thay drowne,
Both in feyldys and in towne,
And berys all downe;
And that is a wonder.

We that walk on the nyghtys,
Oure catell to kepe,
We se sodan syghtys
When othere men slepe.
Yit me thynk my hart lyghtys;
I se shrewys pepe.
Ye ar two all-wyghtys -
I wyll gyf my shepe
A turne.
Bot full yll haue I ment,
As I walk on this bent;
I may lyghtly repent,
My toes if I spurne.

A, syr, God you saue,
And master myne!
A drynk fayn wold I haue,
And somwhat to dyne.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Crystys curs, my knaue
Thou art a ledyr hyne!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
What, the boy lyst raue!
Abyde vnto syne;
We haue mayde it,
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Yll thryft on thy pate!
Though the shrew cam late,
Yit is he in state
To dyne - if he had it.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Sich seruandys as I,
That swettys and swynkys,
Etys oure brede full dry,
And that me forthynkys.
We ar oft weytt and wery
When master-men wynkys,
Yit commys full lately
Both dyners and drynkys;
Bot nately
Both oure dame and oure syre,
When we haue ryn in the myre,
Thay can nyp at oure hyre,
And pay vs full lately.

Bot here my trouth, master:
For the fayr that ye make,
I shall do therafter -
Wyrk as I take.
I shall do a lytyll, syr,
And emang euer lake,
For yit lay my soper
Neuer on my stomake
In feyldys.
Wherto shuld I threpe?
With my staf can I lepe;
And men say «Lyght chepe
Letherly foryeldys.»

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Thou were an yll lad
To ryde on wowyng
With a man that had
Bot lytyll of spendyng.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Peasse, boy, I bad.
No more ianglyng,
Or I shall make the full rad,
By the heuens kyng!
With thy gawdys -
Where ar oure shepe, boy? - we skorne.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Sir, this same day at morne
I thaym left in the corne,
When thay rang lawdys.

They haue pasture good,
Thay can not go wrong.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
That is right. By the roode,
Thyse nyghtys ar long!
Yit I wold, or we yode,
Oone gaf vs a song.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
So I thoght as I stode,
To myrth vs emong.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
I grauntt.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Lett me syng the tenory.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
And I the tryble so hye.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Then the meyne fallys to me.
Lett se how ye chauntt.

Tunc intrat Mak in clamide se super togam vestitus.

M a k
Now lord, for thy naymes sevyn,
That made both moyn and starnes
Well mo then I can neuen,
Thi will, Lorde, of me tharnys.
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I am all vneuen;
That moves oft my harnes.
Now wold God I were in heuen,
For the[r] wepe no barnes
So styll.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Who is that pypys so poore?
M a k
Wold God ye wyst how I foore!
Lo, a man that walkys on the moore
And has not all his wyll.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Mak, where has thou gone?
Tell vs tythyng.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Is he commen? then ylkon
Take hede to his thyng.
Et accipit clamidem ab ipso.
M a k
What! ich be a yoman,
I tell you, of the kyng,
The self and the some,
Sond from a greatt lordyng,
And sich.
Fy on you! Goyth hence
Out of my presence!
I must haue reuerence.
Why, who be ich?

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Why make ye it so qwaynt?
Mak, ye do wrang.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Bot, Mak, lyst ye saynt?
I trow that ye lang.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
I trow the shrew can paynt,
The dewyll myght hym hang!
M a k
Ich shall make complaynt,
And make you all to thwang
At a worde,
And tell euyn how ye doth.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Bot, Mak, is that sothe?
Now take outt that Sothren tothe,
And sett in a torde!

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Mak, the dewill in youre ee!
A stroke wold I leyne you.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Mak, know ye not me?
By God, I couthe teyn you.
M a k
God looke you all thre!
Me thoght I had sene you;
Ye ar a fare compané.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Can ye now mene you?
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Shrew, pepe!
Thus late as thou goys,
What wyll men suppos?
And thou has an yll noys
Of stelyng of shepe.

M a k
And I am trew as steyll,
All men waytt;
Bot a sekenes I feyll
That haldys me full haytt:
My belly farys not weyll;
It is out of astate.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Seldom lyys the dewyll
Dede by the gate.
M a k
Full sore am I and yll.
If I stande stone-styll,
I ete not an nedyll
Thys moneth and more.

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
How farys thi wyff? By thi hoode,
How farys she?
M a k
Lyys walteryng - by the roode -
By the fyere, lo!
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And a howse full of brude.
She drynkys well, to;
Yll spede othere good
That she wyll do!
Bot s[h]o
Etys as fast as she can,
And ilk yere that commys to man
She bryngys furth a lakan -
And, som yeres, two.

Bot were I now more gracyus
And rychere be far,
I were eten outt of howse
And of harbar.
Yit is she a fowll dowse,
If ye com nar;
Ther is none that trowse
Nor knowys a war
Then ken I.
Now wyll ye se what I profer? -
To gyf all in my cofer
To-morne at next to offer
Hyr hed-maspenny.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
I wote so forwakyd
Is none in this shyre;
I wold slepe, if I takyd
Les to my hyere.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
I am cold and nakyd,
And wold haue a fyere.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
I am wery, forrakyd,
And run in the myre -
Wake thou!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Nay, I wyll lyg downe by,
For I must slepe truly.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
As good a mans son was I
As any of you.

Bot, Mak, com heder! Betwene
Shall thou lyg downe.
M a k
Then myght I lett you bedene
Of that ye wold rowne,
No drede.
Fro my top to my too,
Manus tuas commendo,
Poncio Pilato;
Cryst-crosse me spede!

Tunc surgit, pastoribus dormientibus, et dicit:

Now were tyme for a man
That lakkys what he wold
To stalk preuely than
Vnto a fold,
And neemly to wyrk than
And be not to bold,
For he myght aby the bargan,
If it were told
At the endyng.
Now were tyme for to reyll;
Bot he nedys good counsell
That fayn wold fare weyll,
And has bot lytyll spendyng.

Bot abowte you a serkyll
As rownde as a moyn,
To I haue done that I wyll,
Tyll that it be noyn,
That ye lyg stone-styll
To that I haue doyne;
And I shall say thertyll
Of good wordys a foyne:
«On hight,
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Ouer youre heydys, my hand I lyft.
Outt go youre een! Fordo your syght!»
Bot yit I must make better shyft
And it be right.

Lord! what thay slepe hard!
That may ye all here.
Was I neuer a shepard,
Bot now wyll I lere.
If the flok be skard,
Yit shall I nyp nere.
How! drawes hederward!
Now mendys oure chere
From sorow
A fatt shepe, I dar say,
A good flese, dar I lay.
Eft-whyte when I may,
Bot this will I borow.

How, Gyll, art thou in?
Gett vs som lyght.
V x o r  e i u s
Who makys sich dyn
This tyme of the nyght?
I am sett for to spyn;
I hope not I myght
Ryse a penny to wyn,
I shrew them on hight!
So farys
A huswyff that has bene
To be rasyd thus betwene.
Here may no note be sene
For sich small charys.

M a k
Good wyff, open the hek!
Seys thou not what I bryng?
V x o r
I may thole the dray the snek.
A, com in, my swetyng!
M a k
Yee, thou thar not rek
Of my long standyng.
V x o r
By the nakyd nek
Art thou lyke for to hyng!
M a k
Do way!
I am worthy my mete,
For in a strate can I gett
More then thay that swynke and swette
All the long day.

Thus it fell to my lott.
Gyll, I had sich grace.
V x o r
It were a fowll blott
To be hanged for the case.
M a k
I haue skapyd, Ielott,
Oft as hard a glase.
V x o r
«Bot so long goys the pott
To the water,» men says,
«At last
Comys it home broken.»
M a k
Well knowe I the token,
Bot let it neuer be spoken,
Bot com and help fast.

I wold, he were flayn;
I lyst well ete.
This twelmothe was I not so fayn
Of oone shepe-mete.
V x o r
Com thay or he be slayn,
And here the shepe blete -
M a k
Then myght I be tane.
That were a cold swette!
Go spar
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The gaytt-doore.
V x o r
    Yis, Mak,
For and thay com at thy bak -
M a k
Then myght I by, for all the pak,
The dewill of the war!

V x o r
A good bowrde haue I spied,
Syn thou can none:
Here shall we hym hyde,
To thay be gone,
In my credyll. Abyde!
Lett me alone,
And I shall lyg besyde
In chylbed, and grone.
M a k
Thou red,
And, I shall say thou was lyght
Of a knaue childe this nyght.
V x o r
Now well is me day bright
That euer was I bred!

This is a good gyse
And a far cast;
Yit a woman avyse
Helpys at the last.
I wote neuer who spyse;
Agane go thou fast.
M a k
Bot I com or thay ryse,
Els blawes a cold blast!
I wyll go slepe.
Yit slepys all this meneye,
And I shall go stalk preuely,
As it had neuer bene I
That caryed thare shepe.

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Resurrex a mortruus!
Haue hold my hand.
Iudas carnas dominus!
I may not well stand;
My foytt slepys, by Iesus,
And I water fastand.
I thoght that we layd vs
Full nere Yngland.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
A ye!
Lord, what I haue slept weyll!
As fresh as an eyll,
As lyght I me feyll
As leyfe on a tre.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Bensté be herein!
So me qwakys,
My hart is outt of skyn,
Whatso it makys.
Who makys all this dyn?
So my browes blakys,
To the dowore wyll I wyn.
Harke, felows, wakys!
We were fowre -
Se ye awre of Mak now?
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
We were vp or thou.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Man, I gyf god avowe,
Yit yede he nawre.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Me thoght he was lapt
In a wolfe-skyn.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
So ar many hapt
Now, namely within.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
When we had long napt,
Me thoght with a gyn
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A fatt shepe he trapt;
Bot he mayde no dyn.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Be styll!
Thi dreme makys the woode;
It is bot fantom, by the roode.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Now God turne all to good,
If it be his wyll.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Ryse, Mak, for shame!
Thou lygys right lang.
M a k
Now Crystys holy name
Be vs emang!
What is this? for Sant Iame,
I may not well gang!
I trow I be the same.
A! my nek has lygen wrang
Mekill thank! syn yister-euen,
Now by Sant Strevyn,
I was flayd with a swevyn -
My hart out of sloghe.

I thoght Gyll began to crok
And trauell full sad,
Wel-ner at the fyrst cok,
Of a yong lad
For to mend oure flok.
Then be I neuer glad;
I haue tow on my rok
More then euer I had.
A, my heede!
A house full of yong tharmes,
The dewill knok outt thare harnes!
Wo is hym has many barnes,
And therto lytyll brede.

I must go home, by youre lefe,
To Gyll, as I thoght.
I pray you looke my slefe,
That I steyll noght;
I am loth you to grefe,
Or from you take oght.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Go furth, yll myght thou chefe!
Now wold I we soght,
This morne,
That we had all oure store.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Bot I will go before;
Let vs mete.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
At the crokyd thorne.

M a k
Vndo this doore!
[V x o r]
    Who is here?
M a k
How long shall I stand?
V x o r
Who makys sich a bere?
Now walk in the wenyand!
M a k
A, Gyll, what chere?
It is I, Mak, youre husbande.
V x o r
Then may we se here
The dewill in a bande,
Syr Gyle!
Lo, he commys with a lote,
As he were holden in the throte.
I may not syt at my note
A handlang while.

M a k
Wyll ye here what fare she makys
To gett hir a glose?
And dos noght bot lakys
And clowse hir toose.
V x o r
Why, who wanders, who wakys?
Who commys, who gose?
Who brewys, who bakys?
What makys me thus hose?
And than -
It is rewthe to beholde -
Now in hote, now in colde,
Full wofull is the householde
That wantys a woman.

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Bot what ende has thou mayde
With the hyrdys, Mak?
M a k
The last worde that thay sayde
When I turnyd my bak,
Thay wold looke that thay hade
Thare shepe, all the pak.
I hope thay wyll nott be well payde
When thay thare shepe lak,
Bot howso the gam gose,
To me thay wyll suppose,
And make a fowll noyse,
And cry outt apon me.

Bot thou must do as thou hyght.
V x o r
I accorde me thertyll;
I shall swedyll hym right
In my credyll.
If it were a gretter slyght,
Yit couthe I help tyll.
I wyll lyg downe stright.
Com hap me.
M a k
    I wyll.
V x o r
Com Coll and his maroo,
Thay will nyp vs full naroo.
M a k
Bot I may cry out, «haroo!»,
The shepe if thay fynde.

V x o r
Harken ay when thay call;
Thay will com onone.
Com and make redy all,
And syng by thyn oone;
Syng «lullay» thou shall,
For I must grone,
And cry outt by the wall
On Mary and Iohn
For sore.
Syng «lullay» on fast
When thou heris at the last,
And bot I play a fals cast
Trust me no more.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
A, Coll, goode morne!
Why slepys thou nott?
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Alas, that euer was I borne!
We haue a fowll blott -
A fat wedir haue we lorne.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Mary, Godys forbott!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Who shuld do vs that skorne?
That were a fowll spott.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Som shrewe.
I haue soght with my dogys
All Horbery shrogys,
And of fefteyn hogys
Fond I bot oone ewe.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Now trow me, if ye will -
By Sant Thomas of Kent,
Ayther Mak or Gyll
Was at that assent.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Peasse, man, be still!
I sagh when he went.
Thou sklanders hym yll;
Thou aght to repent
Goode spede.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Now as euer myght I the,
If I shuld euyn here de,
I wold say it were he
That dyd that same dede.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Go we theder, I rede,
And ryn on oure feete;
Shall I neuer ete brede,
The sothe to I wytt.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Nor drynk in my heede,
With hym tyll I mete.
f 43v
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
I wyll rest in no stede
Tyll that I hym grete,
My brothere.
Oone I will hight:
Tyll I se hym in sight,
Shall I neuer slepe one nyght
Ther I do anothere.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Will ye here how thay hak?
Oure syre, lyst croyne.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Hard I neuer none crak
So clere out of toyne.
Call on hym.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Vndo youre doore soyne!
M a k
Who is that spak,
As it were noyne,
On loft?
Who is that, I say?
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Goode felowse, were it day.
M a k
As far as ye may,
Good, spekys soft,

Ouer a seke woman's heede
That is at maylleasse;
I had leuer be dede
Or she had any dyseasse.
V x o r
Go to anothere stede!
I may not well qweasse;
Ich fote that ye trede
Goys thorow my nese
So hee.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Tell vs, Mak, if ye may,
How fare ye, I say?
M a k
Bot ar ye in this towne to-day?
Now how fare ye?

Ye haue ryn in the myre
And ar weytt yit;
I shall make you a fyre,
If ye will sytt.
A nores wold I hyre.
Thynk ye on yit?
Well qwytt is my hyre -
My dreme, this is itt -
A seson.
I haue barnes, if ye knew,
Well mo then enewe;
Bot we must drynk as we brew,
And that is bot reson.

I wold ye dynyd or ye yode.
Me thynk that ye swette.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Nay, nawther mendys oure mode
Drynke nor mette.
M a k
Why, syr, alys you oght bot goode?
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Yee, oure shepe that we gett
Ar stollyn as thay yode;
Oure los is grette.
M a k
Syrs, drynkys!
Had I bene thore,
Som shuld haue boght it full sore.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Mary, some men trowes that ye wore,
And that vs forthynkys.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Mak, som men trowys
That it shuld be ye.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Ayther ye or youre spouse,
So say we.
M a k
Now if ye haue suspowse
To Gill or to me,
Com and rype oure howse,
And then may ye se
Who had hir.
If I any shepe fott,
Ayther cow or stott -
And Gyll, my wyfe, rose nott
Here syn she lade hir -

f 44r
As I am true and lele,
To God here I pray
That this be the fyrst mele
That I shall ete this day.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Mak, as haue I ceyll,
Avyse the, I say:
He lernyd tymely to steyll
That couth not say nay.
V x o r
I swelt!
Outt, thefys, fro my wonys!
Ye com to rob vs for the nonys.
M a k
Here ye not how she gronys?
Youre hartys shuld melt.

V x o r
Outt, thefys, fro my barne!
Negh hym not thor!
M a k
Wyst ye how she had farne
Youre hartys wold be sore.
Ye do wrang, I you warne,
That thus commys before
To a woman that has farne -
Bot I say no more.
V x o r
A, my medyll!
I pray to God so mylde,
If euer I you begyld,
That I ete this chylde
That lygys in this credyll.

M a k
Peasse, woman, for Godys payn,
And cry not so!
Thou spyllys thy brane
And makys me full wo.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
I trow oure shepe be slayn.
What fynde ye two?
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
All wyrk we in vayn;
As well may we go.
Bot hatters!
I can fynde no flesh,
Hard nor nesh,
Salt nor fresh -
Bot two tome platers.

Whik catell bot this,
Tame nor wylde,
None, as haue I blys,
As lowde as he smylde.
V x o r
No, so God me blys
And gyf me ioy of my chylde!
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
We haue merkyd amys;
I hold vs begyld.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Syr, don.
Syr - oure lady hym saue! -
Is youre chyld a knaue?
M a k
Any lord myght hym haue,
This chyld, to his son.

When he wakyns he kyppys,
That ioy is to se.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
In good tyme to hys hyppys,
And in celé!
Bot who was his gossyppys
So sone redé?
M a k
So fare fall thare lyppys!
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Hark now, a le.
M a k
So God thaym thank,
f 44v
Parkyn, and Gybon Waller, I say,
And gentill Iohn Horne, in good fay -
He made all the garray -
With the greatt shank.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Mak, freyndys will we be,
For we ar all oone.
M a k
We! Now I hald for me,
For mendys gett I none.
Fare well all thre! -
All glad were ye gone.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Fare wordys may ther be,
Bot luf is ther none
This yere.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Gaf ye the chyld, any thyng?
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
I trow not oone farthyng.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Fast agane will I flyng;
Abyde ye me there.

Mak, take it to no grefe
If I com to thi barne.
M a k
Nay, thou dos me greatt reprefe,
And fowll has thou farne.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
The child will it not grefe,
That lytyll day-starne.
Mak, with youre leyfe,
Let me gyf youre barne
Bot sex pence.
M a k
Nay do way! He slepys.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Me thynk he pepys.
M a k
When he wakyns he wepys.
I pray you go hence!

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Gyf me lefe hym to kys
And lyft vp the clowtt.
What the dewill is this?
He has a long snowte!
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
He is markyd amys.
We wate ill abowte.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Ill-spon weft, iwys,
Ay commys foull owte.
Ay, so!
He is lyke to oure shepe!
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
How, Gyb, may I pepe?
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
I trow kynde will crepe
Where it may not go.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
This was a qwantt gawde
And a far-cast:
It was a hee frawde.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Yee, syrs, wast.
Lett bren this bawde
And bynd hir fast.
A! fals skawde!
Hang at the last
So shall thou.
Wyll ye se how thay swedyll
His foure feytt in the medyll?
Sagh I neuer in a credyll
A hornyd lad or now.

f 45r
M a k
Peasse, byd I. What!
Lett be youre fare!
I am he that hym gatt,
And yond woman hym bare.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
What dewill shall he hatt? -
Mak? Lo, God, makys ayre!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Lett be all that!
Now God gyf hym care,
I sagh.
V x o r
A pratty child is he
As syttys on a wamans kne;
A dyllydowne, perdé,
To gar a man laghe.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
I know hym by the eere-marke;
That is a good tokyn.
M a k
I tell you, syrs, hark!
Hys noyse was brokyn.
Sythen told me a clerk
That he was forspokyn.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
This is a fals wark;
I wold fayn be wrokyn.
Gett wepyn!
V x o r
He was takyn with an elfe,
I saw it myself;
When the clok stroke twelf
Was he forshapyn.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Ye two ar well feft
Sam in a stede.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Syn thay manteyn thare theft,
Let do thaym to dede.
M a k
If I trespas eft,
Gyrd of my heede.
With you will I be left.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Syrs, do my reede:
For this trespas
We will nawther ban ne flyte,
Fyght nor chyte,
Bot haue done as tyte,
And cast hym in canvas.

[ P r i m u s  P a s t o r ]
Lord! what I am sore,
In poynt for to bryst!
In fayth, I may no more;
Therfor wyll I ryst.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
As a shepe of sevyn skore
He weyd in my fyst.
For to slepe aywhore
Me thynk that I lyst.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Now, I pray you,
Lyg downe on this grene.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
On these thefys yit I mene.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Wherto shuld ye tene?
Do as I say you.

Angelus cantat «Gloria in excelsis»; postea dicat:

A n g e l u s
Ryse, hyrd-men heynd,
For now is he borne
That shall take fro the feynd
That Adam had lorne;
That warloo to sheynd,
This nyght is he borne.
God is made youre freynd
Now at this morne,
He behestys.
At Bedlem go se
Ther lygys that fre
In a cryb full poorely,
Betwyx two bestys.

f 45v
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
This was a qwant stevyn
That euer yit I hard.
It is a meruell to neuyn,
Thus to be skard.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Of Godys son of heuyn
He spak vpward.
All the wod on a leuyn
Me thoght that he gard
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
He spake of a barne
In Bedlem, I you warne.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
That betokyns yond starne;
Let vs seke hym there.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Say, what was his song?
Hard ye not how he crakyd it,
Thre brefes to a long?
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Yee, Mary, he hakt it:
Was no crochett wrong,
Nor nothyng that lakt it.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
For to syng vs emong,
Right as he knakt it,
I can.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Let se how ye croyne!
Can ye bark at the mone?
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Hold youre tonges! Haue done!
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Hark after, than.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
To Bedlem he bad
That we shuld gang;
I am full fard
That we tary to lang.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Be mery and not sad -
Of myrth is oure sang!
Euerlastyng glad
To mede may we fang
Withoutt noyse.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Hy we theder forthy,
If we be wete and wery,
To that chyld and that lady!
We haue it not to lose.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
We fynde by the prophecy -
Let be youre dyn! -
Of Dauid and Isay
And mo then I myn -
Thay prophecyed by clergy -
That in a vyrgyn
Shuld he lyght and ly,
To slokyn oure syn
And slake it,
Oure kynde, from wo;
For Isay sayd so:
Ecce virgo
Concipiet a chylde that is nakyd.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Full glad may we be,
And abyde that day
That lufly to se,
That all myghtys may.
Lord, well were me
For ones and for ay,
Myght I knele on my kne,
Som word for to say
To that chylde.
Bot the angell sayd
In a cryb was he layde;
He was poorly arayd,
Both mener and mylde.

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Patryarkes that has bene,
And prophetys beforne,
Thay desyryd to haue sene
This chylde that is borne.
Thay ar gone full clene;
That haue thay lorne.
f 46r
We shall se hym, I weyn,
Or it be morne,
To tokyn.
When I se hym and fele,
Then wote I full weyll
It is true as steyll
That prophetys haue spokyn:

To so poore as we ar
That he wold appere,
Fyrst fynd, and declare
By his messyngere.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Go we now, let vs fare;
The place is vs nere.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
I am redy and yare;
Go we in fere
To that bright.
Lord, if thi wylles be -
We ar lewde all thre -
Thou grauntt vs som kyns gle
To comforth thi wight.

P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Hayll, comly and clene!
Hayll, yong child!
Hayll, maker, as I meyne,
Of a madyn so mylde!
Thou has waryd, I weyne
The warlo so wylde:
The fals gyler of teyn,
Now goys he begylde.
Lo, he merys,
Lo, he laghys, my swetyng!
A wel fare metyng!
I haue holden my hetyng;
Haue a bob of cherys.

S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Hayll, sufferan sauyoure,
For thou has vs soght!
Hayll, frely foyde and floure,
That all thyng has wroght!
Hayll, full of fauoure,
That made all of noght!
Hayll! I kneyll and I cowre.
A byrd haue I broght
To my barne.
Hayll, lytyll tyne mop!
Of oure crede thou art crop;
I wold drynk on thy cop,
Lytyll day-starne.

T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Hayll, derlyng dere,
Full of Godhede!
I pray the be nere
When that I haue nede.
Hayll, swete is thy chere!
My hart wold blede
To se the sytt here
In so poore wede,
With no pennys.
Hayll! Put furth thy dall!
I bryng the bot a ball:
Haue and play the withall,
And go to the tenys.

M a r i a
The fader of heuen,
God omnypotent,
That sett all on seuen,
His son has he sent.
My name couth he neuen,
And lyght or he went.
I conceyuyd hym full euen
Thrugh myght as he ment,
And now is he borne.
He kepe you fro wo!
I shall pray hym so.
Tell furth as ye go,
And myn on this morne.

f 46v
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
Fare well, lady
So fare to beholde,
With thy childe on thi kne.
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Bot he lygys full cold.
Lord, well is me!
Now we go, thou behold.
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
Forsothe, allredy
It semys to be told
Full oft.
P r i m u s  P a s t o r
What grace we haue fun!
S e c u n d u s  P a s t o r
Com furth; now ar we won!
T e r c i u s  P a s t o r
To syng ar we bun -
Let take on loft!

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