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Nou skrinketh rose ant lylie flour
[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 80r]
Nou skrinketh rose ant lylie flour
That whilen ber that suete savour
In somer that suete tyde;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour,
Ne no levedy so bryht in bour,
That ded ne shal byglyde.
Whose wol fleysh lust forgon
Ant hevene blis abyde,
On Iesu be is thoht anon,
That therled was ys side.
From Petresbourh in o morewenyng,
As y me wende o my pleyghyng,
On mi folie y thohte;
Menen y gon my mournyng
To hire that ber the heuene kyng,
Of merci hire bysohte:
Ledy, preye thi sone for ous,
That us duere bohte,
Ant shild us from the lothe hous
That to the Fend is wrohte!
Myn herte of dedes wes fordred
Of synne that y have my fleish fed,
Ant folewed al my tyme,
That y not whider I shal be led,
When y lygge on dethes bed—
In joie ore in to pyne.
On o ledy myn hope is,
Moder ant virgyne;
Whe shulen in to heuene blis
Thurh hire medicine.
Betere is hire medycyn,
Then eny mede or eny wyn;
Hire erbes smulleth suete!
From catenas in to dyuelyn,
Nis ther no leche so fyn
Oure serewes to bete.
Mon that feleth eni sor
Ant his folie wol lete,
Withoute gold other eny tresor
He mai be sound ant sete.
Of penaunce is his plastre al,
Ant ever serven hire y shal,
Nou ant al my lyve.
Nou is fre that er wes thral,
Al thourh that levedy gent ant smal:
Heried be hyr joies fyve!
Wherso eny sek ys,
Thider hye blyve—
Thurh hire beoth ybroht to blis,
Bo mayden ant wyve.
For he that dude is body on tre
Of oure sunnes have piete,
That weldes heovene boures!
Wymmon, with thi jolyfte,
Thou thench on godes shoures.
Thah thou be whyt ant bryth on ble,
Falewen shule thy floures—
Jesu, have merci of us,
That al this world honoures.
Amen.
Now wither the rose and lily-flower
Trans. A. Jokinen
Now wither the rose and lily-flower,
Which lately bore that sweet scent
In summer, that sweet time.
There is no queen so powerful nor strong,
Nor any lady so splendid in a bower
That death shall not her take.
Whoso would lust of the flesh forego
And heavenly bliss await,
On Jesus be his thoughts always,
Who was pierced through on his side.
From Peterborough of a morning,
As I went, for my pleasure,
I thought upon my folly;
Wailing, I 'gan my lamentation,
To her who bore the heaven's king,
I prayed to her for mercy:
"Lady pray to your son for us,
To him who bought us dearly,
And shield us from the hateful house
That for the Fiend was wrought!
My heart was full of dread for deeds
Of sin with which I've fed my flesh,
And pursued all my time,
So that I know not whither I shall be led
When I lie on my deathbed—
Into joy or into torment.
On one lady I rest my hope,
Mother and virgin—
We shall go into heaven's bliss
Through her medicine.
Better is her medicine
Than any mead or any wine—
Her herbs smelleth sweet.
From Caithness to Dublin,
There is no healer so fine,
Our sorrows to conquer.
A man that feeleth any remorse
And his folly will forsake,
Without gold or any other treasure
He may be safe and sound.
Of penance is made up his whole remedy,
And forever serve her I shall,
Now and all my life.
Now he is free who once was thrall,
All thanks to that Lady noble and dainty:
Praised be her joys five!
Wheresoever anyone is sick,
Thither swiftly hurry—
Thoult be brought to bliss through her,
[Who is] both a virgin and a wife.
May he that placed his body on the rood
Have mercy on our sins,
He who the bowers of heaven rules!
Women, with your joyousness,
Think thou on God's sufferings.
Though thou art fair and beautiful of face,
Wither shall your flowers.
Have mercy on us, Jesus,
Whom all the world honours.
Amen.
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Transcribed from the manuscript and translated by Anniina Jokinen.
Manuscript image of Harley MS 2253, f. 80r.
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Created by Anniina Jokinen on November 27, 2018.
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