|
I seye, I hadde in herte greet despit |
| That he of any oother had delit; |
| But he was quit, by God and by Seint Joce! |
| 490 | I made hym of the same wode a croce; |
| Nat of my body in no foul manere, |
| But certeinly, I made folk swich cheere |
| That in his owene grece I made hym frye |
| For angre and for verray jalousye. |
| 495 | By God, in erthe I was his purgatorie, |
| For which I hope his soule be in glorie, |
| For, God it woot, he sat ful ofte and song |
| Whan that his shoo ful bitterly hym wrong! |
| Ther was no wight save God and he, that wiste |
| 500 | In many wise how soore I hym twiste. |
| He deyde whan I cam fro Jerusalem, |
| And lith ygrave under the roode-beem, |
| Al is his tombe noght so curyus |
| As was the sepulcre of hym Daryus, |
| 505 | Which that Appelles wroghte subtilly. |
| It nys but wast to burye hym preciously, |
| Lat hym fare-wel, God yeve his soule reste, |
| He is now in his grave, and in his cheste. |
|
| I say that in my heart I'd great despite
| | When he of any other had delight.
| | But he was quit by God and by Saint Joce!
| | 490 | I made, of the same wood, a staff most gross;
| | Not with my body and in manner foul,
| | But certainly I showed so gay a soul
| | That in his own thick grease I made him fry
| | For anger and for utter jealousy.
| | 495 | By God, on earth I was his purgatory,
| | For which I hope his soul lives now in glory.
| | For God knows, many a time he sat and sung
| | When the shoe bitterly his foot had wrung.
| | There was no one, save God and he, that knew
| | 500 | How, in so many ways, I'd twist the screw.
| | He died when I came from Jerusalem,
| | And lies entombed beneath the great rood-beam,
| | Although his tomb is not so glorious
| | As was the sepulchre of Darius,
| | 505 | The which Apelles wrought full cleverly;
| | 'Twas waste to bury him expensively.
| | Let him fare well. God give his soul good rest,
| | He now is in the grave and in his chest. |
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