Zu mittelenglischen gedichten. I. Zu den streitgedichten zwischen körper und seele / [Hermann Varnhagen]. Varnhagen, Hermann, 1850-1924. 16 pages, ca. 43 kb University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2018 CME00101 04078795 BAV4399

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 Anglia : zeitschrift für Englische philologie / ed. Richard Paul Wülcker. Vol. 2, p. [225]-252. [28] p. ; 24 cm. Halle a. S. Max Niemeyer 1879 Title from email of 2000-03-08 ; description based on email note. Corpus of Middle English. "Hermann Varnhagen."--Editor, p. 255.

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101 CME00101 CME00101 A disputeson betwen the body and the sowle . As i lay in a wynternyght, A litel drouknynge befor þe day, Me thoughte i sey a rewely syght, A body þere it on bere lay. Þat hadde ben a mody knyght, And litel served god to pay; Lore he hadde his lyves lyght; Þe gost was oute and wolde go way. And whanne þe gost it shulde go, It withheld and withstood, And loked on þe body þat it cam fro, Ful sorwefully with drewery mood; And seyde: 'Allas and welewo! Þou fekele flessh, þou false blood! Why lyst þou þere styncand so, þat whylome were so wyld and wood? Þou þat were wene to ryde, Hye on horse in and out, So queynte a knyght and kid so wyde, And as a lyon fers and proud, Where is now þy m[u]che pryde, And þy los þat was so loud? Why lyst þou þere with bare syde, Prikked in so povere a shroud? Wher are now alle þy ryche wedes, Þy somers and þy ryche beddes, Þy proude palfreys and þy stedes, Þat þou aboute with þe leddes? þe grehoundes þat were wont to grede, And þo faukons þat þou feddes? Me thenketh þy good is þe ful gnede, Now alle þy frendes are fro þe fledde. Where are now alle þyn hey toures, Þy chambres and þyn hye halle, Þat peynted were with proude floures, And þy [ry]che robes alle? Þy curtyns and þy covertoures? Þy sendele and þy ryche palle? Loke, wrech, where is now þy boure; To morwe þou shalt þerein falle. Where are now þy cokes snelle, Þat shulde go to greyth þy mete With ryche spyces, for to smelle, Whan were set for to frete, To don þy foule flessh to swelle, Þat now shal wylde wormes ete? And ine þe stronge peyne of helle With þy glotony þou hast gete. Where ar þy glemen, þat shulde þe glewe With harpe and lute and tabourbete? Þe piperes, þat þo bagges blewe, And þat þou yaf þo yiftes gre[te], Þe ryche robes, elde and newe, To yelpe of þe, where þat þey sete? Swyche trifelons evere ontrewe Of þe þey hadde gret beyete. For to bere þy word so wyde, And make of þe rym and raf, Swyche men for pompe and pryde Largely of þyn þou yaf. Þe povere þou lete ay be syde, For evere þou hem overhaf; And if þey came in any onryde, Þou yaf hem dyntes with a staf. Fro þe pore þou it nam, Þat many a glotoun eet and drank; Nevere þoughtest þou of wham, Ne hoo þerefore ful harde swank. Þe ryche were welcome whan þey cam, Þe pore were strike, til þey stank. Now is al gon with goddes gram, And þou hast, wrech, ful lytel thank. Of al þat þou togider drough, Þou were hardere þan þe flynt; Swich shal make hem large inough, Þat þou haddest nevere ymynt; Þou þat madest it so tough, Al þy bost is now stynt. And i may wepe þat þou be lough, For al my blisse for þe is tynt. Wrech, nevere in al þy lyve Of worldes good were þou sad; Now shalt þou have lond ne lyth, But sevene fote, onethes þat. Now sest þou wel, it shal þe kyth, Lore þou hast þat þou here gat; And now shalt þou nevere be blythe, Of al þat oþer shal make hem glad. But to morwe whan it is day, Out fro kyth and al þy kyn Bare shalt þou wende away, And leve here al þy worldes wyn. In proud paleys þough þou here lay, With wormes is now take þyn in; Þy boure is beeld ful colde in clay, Þe rof to reste upon þy chin. Where are þy markes and þy poundes, Þy tresor and þy fayre fee Of al þy good fro roof to grounde, Bryght broches and many a bygh? Ho durste abate to þe grounde Þy baner, whan it was reysed on hygh? Evele art þou proved in a stounde, Þy tayl is cutted þe ful nygh. Þy false heyr is now ful fayn, Þy fayre fe to undergo. Wel is him þis day, hath sayn, Þat lytil good wele for us do. Ne wil he not now yeve agayn, To brynge us boþe to reste and ro, Of al þat lond a fote or twayn, Þat þou ful sinfully cam to. Ne þy wyf wole no more wepe, To nyght myght she have no rest, Ne for fele thoughtes slepe, What man hire befelle best In þy stede for to qepe; Be þis she wot of on al prest. Be þou to morwe dolve depe, Anon þey shall ben treuthfest. And þy seketours shal now sekke All þy good, now þou art ded, And al shal sone gon to wrekke, Have þey ones delt a lytel bred; Eche of hem shal pyke and skekke Hors and swyn, sheep and net; But lytil thar us þereof rekkes, For we are boþe betaught þe qued. Now are þo bannynges on þe lyght, Wrech, þere i se þe lye, Þat men have bede þe day and nyght, And sete on here knes to crye. But allas! þat i wreched wyght Shall þus giltles abye Al þy shame and þyn unryght; Sorwe and wo now mot i drye.' Respondit corpus ad animam. And whan þe gost with reuful chere Hadde þus mad þis sory mone, Þe body þere it lay on bere, A grisely thyng as it was one, Þe hed uphaf and þe swere, As thyng al seek it yaf a grone, And seyde: 'Where hast þou be my fere, Þat art þus wrothly fro me gone? Why chydest þou with me so fast, Þough i be brought to deþes gape? And þou with me ne wilt not last, What breydest þou me of myn onhape? I am not þe firste ne shal be þe last, Þat shal drynke of þat nape; Nis non so kene þat he nis cast, Þe pruddest is good to kepe his clape. What breydest þou me þat i shal rote? So dede Sampson and Sesar; No man may now fynde a mote Of hem, ne of here moderes þat hem bar. Wormes gnowe ato here throte, So shal þey myn, i am wel war; Þere deth fyndeth þe dore ope, Helpe may non ageyn char. Whan i seygh boþe clerk and knyght, And oþer men be gates go, Heye halles and boures bryght I wende to have had mirthes mo. I was a man of mochel myght, And wende to have lived evere so; My dwellyng here ful faire i dyght, And deth hath put me now þerefro. My wonyng worthyly here i wrought, And thoughte have leved yeres fele; Brode wonges and wodes i bought, With al þat evere i myghte spele. Now is al went ageyn my thought, And deþ, þat can ful stilly stele, Hath me dreve awey with nought, And oþere towelden al my wele. And if þou wilt me þereof wyte, Þat we boþe shul be spilt, With þyself faste þou flyte, For al it was þyn owen gilt. Þat may i prove with wordus lyte, And with resoun, if þou wilt; Þou art to blame, and i al quyte, Þou shuldest us fro wo have shilt. God shop þe after his owen shaft, And yaf þe boþe wit and skill; And in þy lokyng was i laft, To doon after þyn owen wille. Ne wist i nevere of wichecraft, Ne what was good, ne what was ille, But as a beste doumb and daft, And as þou leddest me þeretille. To þe was i take to yeme, A witles thyng as i was born, And sith to serve þe to queme, Boþe on eve and on morwn. But þou þat dedes coudest deme, Schuldest have ben war beforn Of my synne and my folye; Þerefor þou art þyself forlorn.' Anima dicit ad corpus. Þe soule seyde: 'Body be stille! Where hast þou lerned al þis wit, To yeve me þis answer grille, Þer þou lyst bolned as a bit? Wenest þou, wrech, þough þou fille With þy foule flessh a pit, Of al þat evere þou hast doon ille, Þat þou so lyghtly shalt go quit? Wenest þou, wrech, to gete grith, Whan þou lyst roten in þe clay? Nay, þough þou rote boþe pile and pith, And al toblowe with þe wynd away, Yet shalt þou come with lime and lith Ageyn to me at domes day, And come to courte, and i þe wyth, For to kepe oure ryght pay. To loke, þou sayst, þou were me taught, But sin þou coudest of any qued, With þy teth þe brydel þou raught, And dedest al þat i þe forbed. To sinne and shame was þi draught, To sorwe and to wrechedhed; And i ofte ageyn þe faught, But ay þou toke þyn owen red. And whann i monewed þe soulened, Masse to here and evesong, Þe must ferst doon oþer dede, And seydest it was an ydel gong. To ryver or to chace þou yede, Ouþer to courte to deme wrong; But if it were for pompe and pryde, Ful lytel good þou dedest among. Ho may eþer more treson do, Or his owen lord better engyne, Þan he þat al his trost is to, And with him is his owen hyne? Evere sin þou was thrive and thro, And with þat al þe ways was ryne, Þe þou purveydest reste and roo, And me þou dyghtest hellepyne. So many tymes were þou taught, Þat we boþe shulde have; But lytel gaf þou of þat, Þough þou seye fader and moder grave. Þou dest as þe world þe bad, And as þyn owen flesh wolde crave; I suffred þe, and dede as mad, To be my lord, and i þy knave. Now may wylde bestes renne, Hiden hem under lynde and lef; And foules fle be fryth and fenne, Sithen þy false harte clef. Þyn eyen are blynde and kun not kenne, Þy mouth is doumb, þyn eren def; And þou þat lyst here grennende, Fro þe cometh a wikked wef. Ait corpus ad animam. Þe body groned and gan to sayn: 'Gost, þou hast gret wrong iwys, Al þe gilt on me to layn, Þat þou hast lorn so moche bliss. Where was i be wode or weye, Sat or stood or dede amis, Þat i nas evere under þyn eye? Wel þou wost þat soth it is. Þou þat was so worthly wrought, Þou seyst i made þe my thral; Al þat evere þe of rought, Þou it dedist and i withal. Ne missayde i nevere nought, Ne misdede in stede ne stal, Þat ferst of þe [ne] com þe thought. Abye ho it abye shal! What wyst i of wrong or ryght, What to take or what to done, But as þou puttest in my thought, Þat al þe wisdom shuldest have cone? For whan i dede any onryght, And eft sones þereof gan mone, Þan layde i al my myght, Anoþer tyme to have my wone. But haddest þou, so God it yeve, Geve me hunger, thirst, and cold, And wissed me, þat no good knewe, But sorwe and wo and bismar bold, (For) þat i lered in my youthe, Had i holde, whan i was old; But þou me lete gon north and southe, And have al my wil in wold. Wel wost þou what was my kynde, And al mankynde is also, To have þis cursed world in mynde, And ay to coveyte mo and mo; Þou shuldest have lete me be blynde, Whan i wolde to sinne go; But whan þe blynde ledeth þe blynde, In dych þey falle boþe to. I shulde have be but as a scheepe, Or an ox or as a swyn, Þat et and drank and lay and sleepe, Slayn and pased al his pyn; Ne nevere of catel nome ne keepe, Ne chose þe water fro þe wyn; Ne now ne shulde in helle deepe For þ[e] suffre al þis pyn'. Anima dicit ad corpus. 'A þou foule flessh unsete, Now may i synge: Allas! allas! Þat ever i þe saugh yete, For al my love on þe i las; Þat þou lovedest me þou lete, And madest me an howe of glas; I tholed al þat þe thoughte swete, And evere to me tretour þou was. Þe fend of helle, þat hath envye To al mankynde, and ay hath had, Was aboute ay to aspye, To any good whan i þe bad. Þe world þe stood to companye, Þat maketh a soule ay adrad; Þe wiste al þy folye, And made þe, wrech, blynd and mad. But whan i bad þe to Cryst calle, And leve þy sinne and almes do, Penance, fastyng, and for to wake, Þe fend seyde: þou shalt not so; Þou shalt not al þy lust forsake, Ay to leve in sorwe and wo; Joye and blisse i rede þou make, And thenk to live yeres mo. And whan i bad þe leve pride, þy many mes, þy ryche shroud, þe false world þe stood be syde, And bad þe boþe be queynte and proud; Þi flesh with rych cloþs shryde, Not as a beggere in a clout; And on hye hors to ryde, With moche meyne in and out. And whan i bed þe erly ryse, And take of þy soule keepe, Þou saydest þou myghtest in no wyse, For þy mery morwesleepe; Whan ye had set yowre assise, For yow, thre tretours, sore i weepe, Ye me ladde thurgh yowre emprise, As þe shepherde doth his sheepe. And whanne ye hadde told yowre tale, Ayene me were ye alle sworen; Al ye helde but tryfle and tale, Þat i hadde seyd beforen. Ye ledde me be doune and dale, Als an ox be þe horn; And us is brewed þis harde bale, Þat we shal boþe be forlorn'. Corpus ait ad animam. And whan þe body saugh þe gost Swich dool and sorwe make, He seyde: 'Allas! my lyf is lost. Þat evere leved i for þy sake! Þat myn harte ne hadde brest, Whan i was fro my modur take, Or ben into a pit icast, With an eddere or with a snake! For þan had i nevere wist, What was evel or what was good, Ne to þe world have had no trist, Ne suffred as i now mot; But for no seynt may ben oure bot (sic!) To him þat for us shad his blod, Þat we ne ben in helle brent, Of his mercy to don us bote'. Anima dicit ad corpus. 'Certis, now it is to late, For to preye or for to preche; Now þe wayn is at þe yate, And þy tunge hath leid þe speche. On poynt of oure sinne to bate, In al þis world now is no leche; We shal boþe gon o gate, Swich is Cristes harde wreche. But haddest þou a lytel are, Whan us was lyf togidere lent, Whan þou þe feltest seek and sare, Shrive þe and þe fend ishent, And have lete ronne on rewely tere, In weye of amendement, Ne thurst us nevere have had care, Þat god ne wolde us wel defent. If alle þe men undur þe mone To deme us were set on benche, Þe shame þat us shal be done, Ne myghte nevere on bethenche, Ne helpe us with bede ne bone; Ne us may no wyle wrenche. Hellehoundes come ful sone, Fro wham i may nowher blench. I ne may no lenger dwelle, For to stande and speke with þe; Hellehoundes here i yelle, And fendes mo þan i may se, For to fette me to helle, And i ne may nowhider flee; And þou shalt come with flesh and felle At domes day and wone with me'. Demonibus venientibus ad animam. And as it hadde þus isayd, It ne wiste whider to go; But sone it tok a braly brayd, Þer cam a thousand fendes and mo; And whanne þe hadde on him layd Here sory clawes alle þo, It was in a sory playt, Rewly tugged to and fro. Summe were rugged, and summe tayled, With brode bunches on her bak, Sharpe clawes and longe nayles, Was non of hem withoute lak; On ilk halve it was assayled With many a devele blo and blak, Mercy it cryed, but nouht it vayled, Þere god sent so harde wrak. Summe his chaveles al tobrast, And yoten in him led so hot, And beden him to drynke fast, And slunge him al aboute brod; A devele com þere at þe laste, A mayster he was, wel i wot, A culter glowand in him he caste, Þat thurgh his harte sone it smot. Gleyves glowande summe sette To bak, to brest, to boþe syde, Þat at his harte þe pointes mette, And maden him þo woundes wyde; Þey asked him hou wel he lette, Þat evere was so ful of pryde; Yef he hadde þat him was behette; For more him shulde sone betyde. Worþy wedes for to were Þey seyde þat he loved best; Bryght breny for to bere Hot brennyng on him was kest, With starke haspes for to spere, Þat faste sat to bak and brest; A helm þat was litel to were, And an hors þere com ful prest. He broughte forth a brydel tyd A cutted devele as a cote, Þat loude neyed and gaped wyd, Þe leye lemed out of his throte, With a sadel to midsyde, Þat ful of sharpe nayles sote, Als he shulde to helle ryde, Al glowande ilk a grote. Whan he was in þat sadel shreven, As he shulde to tornament, An hundred develes on him dreven, Here and þere was he hent; Of iche dent þe sparkes outsprungen, As a brond þat is forbrent, With hote speres was he stungen, With sharpe swerdes al torent. And whan he hadde riden his rode In þe sadel þere he was set, He was doun cast as a tode, And hellehoundes to him let; Þey brayd out þe peces brode, With reweful tales þey him gret; On alle foure he gled on fote, Unethes myght he ferþer flette. Þey ledde him forth upon þat low, With reuful res under þat rys, And bede he shulde hunte and blowe, And calle on Bemound and Beufys, Ratches þat him were wont to knowe, Sone þey shulde blowe þe prys; And hundred develes on a rowe Dryve him dounward, unthank hys. Whan he cam to þat wretched wone, Þe feendes yeve swich a yelle; Þe erde opnede sone anone, Smoke and smulder up gan welle; Of þe pych and þe brunstone Men myht fele fer þe smelle. Lord god, wo is him begone, Þat þereof shal have halvendelle. Iterum de anima dicente et clamante ad salvatorem suum. And whanne þe gost þat syght sey, Whider it shulde, it kest a cry, And seyde: 'God, þat sittest on hey, On me þy shape þou have mercy! Why schope þou me þat were so sley? And þy creature was i, As many oþer þat sitte þe by, And þat þou hast so wel don by. Þou god, þat wistest al beforn, Why shope þou me to wroþer hele, Þus to be tugged and totorn, Or for to welden any wele? Allas þat tyme þat i was born! So may i say for þis unsele, For now i se i am but lorn, Þere may no man þis doom repele'. Þe fendes gunne ageyn to crie: 'Caytif, it helpeth þe no more To calle on Jesu ne on Marye, Ne for to crave Crystes ore. Lorn þou hast here companye, For þou hast served us ful yore; Þy bulted bred þou shalt abye, As oþer þat leve upon oure lore'. Þo fendes þat were of him fayn, Be top and tayl þey hente it, And slongge it with a mody mayn Ryght into þe deppest pit, Þere sunne nevere shall be seyn, Hemselve sunke doun with it; Þe erde gan go togider ageyn, Þat hole þere was sone idit. Whan it was forth, þat foule lode, Fast it gan to drawe day; On ilk an her a drope stode, For fryht and fere þere as i lay; To Jesu Cryst with mylde mode Faste i gan to crie and pray; I was so ferd, i was ner wode, Þat i shulde have ben born away, I thanked him þat tholed ded, Hise moche mercy and his ore, Þat saved me fro þat foule qued, A sinful wrech as i was þore. Al sinful, i rede, sinnes leet, And shryve yow and rewe sore; Yet ne is no sinne so gret, Þat Crystes mercy [n] is moche more. Now Jesu, þat us alle wrought, And shoop us after his owen face, And with his preciouse blood us bought. Of amendement yeve us space, Þat þyn handwerk tyne nought, In þy blisful stede a place, Þe joye þat þou to us hast wrought, Þou grante us for þyn holy grace. Amen. Explicit disputatio inter corpus et animam.