Lines 385–768

Ful loth were a Cristene mon
To ligge bi an hethene wommon.
That leevede on false lawe.
And as loth was thulke soudan
Thulke maiden for to tan.
As ich fynde in my sawe.
The soudan went to bedde al prest,
Knihtes and ladyes token heore rest.
Folk heo gonne withdrawe ;
The mayden no thing ne slepe,
But al niht lay and wepe
Forte that day gon dawe.

And as heo fel a slepe thore
Hir thoughte ther stod hire bifore
An hundred houndes blake,
And borken on hire lasse and more,
On ther was that greved hire sore,
Awei he wolde hire take.
Ac heo ne durste him not smyte.
For drede leste he wolde hire byte.
Such maystries he gon make ;
And as heo wolde awei fle,
Hir thoughte ther stode develes thre,
Al brennyng as a drake.

So gryslich thei were wrought,
Uche of hem a swerd brought,
And mad hire afert so sore ;
On Jhesu Crist was al hire thouht,
Therfore thei mihte hire harme nouht,
Nouther lasse ne more.
Fro the fendes heo was delyvered sound,
But atte laste ther com an hound,
With brode brouwes and hore.
Almost he hedde hire adoun.
But, thorw Cristes passioun,
Heo was isaved thore.

Yit thouhte hire more, withoute lesyng.
As heo lay in hire swevenyng,
Selcouth hit is to rede,
The blake hound, that hire was folewyng,
Thorw the miht of hevene kyng.
To hire spac in monhede,
In whit ermure as a kniht.
And seide to hire, My swete wight,
Ne dar the no thing drede
Of Tirmagaunt ne of Mahoun,
The lord that sofFrede passioun
The schal helpe at nede.

Whon the mayde was awaked
Hire flesch I wis was al aquaked
For drede of hire swevenynge,
On hire bed heo sat al naked,
To Jhesu Crist hire mone heo maked,
Al mihtful hevene kynge,
As wis as he hire deore bouhte
That hire sweuene that heo thouhte
Scholde tome to good endynge.
Whon the maiden arysen was,
A non the soudan of Damas,
In to his temple he let hire bringe

And seide to that feire may.
Thou most leeven uppon my lay,
And knele her adoun.
Forsake thou most thi false lay.
That thou hast leved on mony a day,
And leeven on fire Mahoun.
Certes, but thou wolt do so,
Thie fader and moder ichulle slo,
Bi Jovin and Plotoun;
Bi Mahoun, and bi Tirmagaunt,
No mon schal be heore waraunt,
Emperour ne kyng with croun.

The mayden onswerde, with glad chere,
To the soudan as ye may heore.
Sire, I nul the no thing greve,
Tel me which is youre maneere,
So schal I make my preyere,
And on yor goddes leeve.
To Tirmagaunt ichul me take,
And Jhesu Crist ichul forsake.
That made Adam and Eve,
And serve the, sire, at thi wille,
Erli and late, lond and stille,
A morwe and eke an eve.

Then was the soudan glad and blithe,
Mahoun he thonkede feole sithe
That heo was so biknowe ;
His joyes couthe no men kithe.
He bad hire go about swithe.
And cusse his goddes arowe.
Furst he custe Appolin,
Astrot and sire Jovin,
For drede of worldes awe ;
In the temple whil heo was ther
Of Mahoun and Jubiter
Ther heo lernde the lawe.

When that heo hire lawes couthe
Heo seide hem openly with mouthe,
Ac Crist foryat he nouht ;
Wher heo weore bi north or southe
Nas munstral non with harpe ne crouthe
That ones mihte chaunge hire thought.
Evere wende the soudan niht and day,
Heo hedde ileeved on his lay,
And yit he was bicauht ;
Whon heo was hire self alone
To Jhesu Crist heo made hire mone
That al this world hath wrought.

The soudan for hire love that tyde
Let criye on his lond bi uch a syde
A turnament to take ;
The strengest that mihte on hors ryde,
He dubbede hem with muche pryde,
And knihtes he let hem make.
Trompors gunne heore hemes blowe,
The knihtes riden out on a rowe,
On stedes white and blake ;
Anon rihte also swithe,
Stronge men gon maystries kithe
For that maidenes sake.

The mayden and the soudan,
In a tour thei leyen than,
The turnament to biholde ;
When the turnament bigon
Ther was a semblet mony a mon,
Of Sarazins stout and bolde.
Heo leyden on as heo weore wode,
With swerdes and with maces goode,
Knihtes yonge and olde ;
So thei foughte with egre mood,
Of heore bodies ran the blod.
In tale as hit is tolde.

Mony an helm ther was unweved.
And bacinettes al to dreved.
And knihtes icast to grounde ;
And summe pleyed of the heved,
And summe heore scolles icleved.
With serwe thei weore unsounde.
So laste the turnement apliht.
Fro the morwe to the niht,
Ther yeven was moni a wounde :
A morwe the soudan wedded that may
In the maner of his lay,
In stori as hit is founde.

The soudan and that ladi fre,
Thei weore togeder but monethes thre,
That heo ne was grete with childe ;
Heo gon to chaunge al hire bleo.
The soudan self hit gon iseo,
Joly he wax and wylde.
Then was the ladi swithe wo,
Jhesu heo bisoughte tho
From schome he scholde hire schilde ;
And bi the fourti wikes ende,
Heo was delyvered out of beende,
Thorw help of Marie mylde.

And when the child was ibore
Wo was the midwyf therfore,
For lymes hedde hit non ;
But as aroonde of flesche icore
In chaumbre lay hire bifore,
Withouten blod or bon.
The ladi was wo as heo wolde dye,
Hit hedde nouther neose nor eiye,
But lay stille as a ston ;
The soudan com that ilke tyde,
And with his wyf he gon to chyde,
That wo was hire bigon.

" Sertes dame, I sei the bifore,
Ayeyn my goddes thou art forswore,
Bi riht reson I preve ;
Therfore this child that is ibore,
Lyf and lyme hit is forlore,
Thorw thi false byleeve.
Thou leevest not riht afyn.
On Astrot ne on Jovyn,
On morwe ne on eve
On Mahoun ne on Tirmagaunt,
Therfore iloren is this luytel faunt.
No wonder thaugh me greve."

Then the ladi was ful wo,
Anon onswerde the soudan the,
Sire, let be thi thouht ;
The child that we have togedere two.
For thi bileeve hit fareth so,
Bi him that me hath wrouht.
Tak hit up wel sone anon.
And to yor temple therwith ye gon.
And loke ye lette hit nouht ;
And preye thi goddes alle ifeere,
As thow art hem bothe lef and dere,
To lyve that hit beo brouht.

And yif Mahoun and Jovin con
Make hit iformed aftur mon,
With lyf and lymes ariht ;
Be him that al this world wan,
Ichul bileeve upon hem than
That thei beoth muchel of miht;
And but thei hit conne to lyve bringe.
On hem byleeve I nul no thinge,
Nouther bi day nor niht.
The child he tok up anon.
In to his temple he con gon
Bifore his godes hit diht.

Uppon his auter he con hit leyn.
And heold up his hondes tweyn,
The mountaunce of fyve myle :
A, mihtful Mahoun, he gan sayn.
And Tirmagaunt so ful of mayn.
In yow nas never gyle ;
Astrot and sire Jovin,
Tirmagaunt and Appolin,
Now help in this peryle !
Ofte he criyede, and ofte he ros.
So longe that he wox al hos,
And al he leste his while.

Whon he hedde altogedere ipreyd,
And al that evere he couthe iseyed,
Hit lay as stille as ston ;
He sturte him up in a breyd.
In his herte sore atrayyed.
For boote com ther non.
Uppon his child he gan to calle,
Ne holpe him nought his goddes alle,
Wei wo was him bigon ;
On Tirmagaunt he gon to grede,
" On yow nas never help at nede,
Fy on ow everichon !"

He hente a staf with herte grete.
And al his goddes he gan to bete,
And drouh hem alle adoun.
And leyde on til that he con swete,
With Sterne strokes and with grete,
On Jovyn and Plotoun ;
On Astrot and sire Jovin,
On Tirmagaunt and Appolin,
He brak hem scolle and croun ;
On Tirmagaunt, that was heore brother,
He laste no lyme hole with other,
Ne on his lord seynt Mahoun.

Whon thei weore bete ful good won
The child lay stille as eny ston ;
Uppon his auteere ;
The child he tok up sone anon,
In to his chaumbre he gan gon,
And seide. Dame, have hit here :
Ichave I don al that I con
To don hit formen after mon.
With beodes and with preyere ;
To alle my goddes ich have bisouht,
Non of hem con helpe hit nouht ;
The devel set hem on fuyre !

Then onswerde that gode womman,
To hire lord the soudan.
Sire, ich the biseche
The beste red that ich con,
Be him that this world won.
To don as I the teche.
Thou hast assayed goddes thyn,
Wolte that ich asaye myn.
Whether be better leche?
And, leove sire, trouwe on this.
And leef on hym that strengor is.
For doute of more wrecche.

Then onswerde the soudan ther.
In his herte he was ful for,
To seo that celli siht ;
Dame, ichulle don after thi lore,
Yif that I may seo bifore.
That thi god beo of such miht.
With eny strengthe that I con,
Yif he conforme hit after mon,
With lyf and limes ariht,
Mi false goddes ichul forsake.
To Jhesu Crist thenne ichul me take,
As ich am a trewe kniht.

Glad was thenne that gode womman
That hire lord the soudan
Hath grauntede hire preiyere.
And that he wolde beo Cristene man,
Heo thonketh him that this world bigan,
And Marie his moder dere.
Nou, lordinges, herkneth a muri pas
Hou this child icristned was.
And hath limes hoi and feere ;
And hou the soudan of Damas
Was icristnet in that cas,
Lustneth and ye schul here.

The ladi seide in that stounde,
Sire, ye have in prisun bounde
Mony a Cristene man ;
Let seche bi lofte and bi grounde,
Yif eny Cristene prisoun mighte be founde,
And bringe bifore me than :
And ye schul seo er to morwe non
What my god hymself con don
More then thi maumetes can.
The prisouns wer anon isought,
A Cristene prest then forth was brouht,
Be heste of that soudan.

Adoun he fel uppon his kne,
And scire he grette that ladi fre.
And seide with fikynges sore ;
And seide. Dame, iblesset ye be
Of god that sit in trinite,
The tyme that ye weore bore. goo
The ladi seide, Art thou a prest,
Beleevest thou on Jhesu Crist,
Const thou of Cristes lore ?
The prest onswerde soone anon,
In verba del ich was on.
Ten winter seththe and more.

Fyve yer hit is agon,
That I ne song masse non.
Hit liketh me ful ille ;
So long I wis hit is agon,
I have ilived in prison of ston.
With wrong and muchel unskille.
The ladi seide, let beo thi fare
Thou schalt be brought out of thi care,
Yif thou const holde thi stille ;
Thorw thin help and myn this stoundes.
We schul make Cristene of hethene houndes ;
God graunte yif hit be his wille.

Heo seide, Icham the soudans wyf,
Thou most do stille withouten stryf,
Al in privite ;
Her is a child selcouth discrif.
Hit nath nouther lyme ne lyf,
Ne eyen for to se.
Holy water thou most make.
And that wrecche thou most take.
For the love of me ;
And cristne hit withouten blame.
And nempne hit in the fader name,
That sitteth in trinite.

On him is al myn help apliht.
That ilke lord ful of miht.
Of serwe he may me slake ;
Yif hit were icristnet ariht.
Hit scholde ha forme to seo with siht,
With lyf and limes to wake.
The ladi bad hire maydens anon.
Out of hire chaumbre forte gon.
For dreds of wriyying sake ;
The prest anon in that tyde,
In feir vessel him bysyde,
Holi water gon make.

In mid-somer tyde this was done,
In worschupe of Crist in trone.
As I ow telle may ;
The prest tok the child anon,
And nempne hit to hote Jon,
In worschipe of that day.
Whon hit was cristned thorw grace,
Hit hedde bothe lymes and face,
And cryede with gret deray,
Huyde and heuh, bon and fel.
And everi lyme, soth to tel.
In stori as ich ow say.

Feirore child miht non be bore,
Hit hedde never a lyme ilore,
Wei schapen hit was withalle ;
The prest no longer dwelled thore,
But yeode and tolde the soudan fore.
As he sat in his halle.
The ladi lay in hire bed.
With riche clothes bespred.
Of golde and purpre palle.
The chyld heo tok up as blyve,
And thonked ur ladi with joyes fyve.
The miracle that ther was falle.

Lord, heo seide, I preye to the,
Almighti god in trinite,
Nou yef me miht and space.
That I mote that day ise
That my lord icrisnet be.
The soudan of Damace.
The soudan com in that was so blak.
The child heo schewed him also spak.
With lyf and lymes and face.
Heo seide, Mahoun ne Appolin,
Were not worth the brustel of a swyn,
Ayeynes my lordes grace.