Part 34 (1/2)
As whyte as snaw was his body, His face was like the son for bright, No man on mold[446] was so mighty Grathly[447] durst loke agans[448] that light, And that same lighte here se I now Shynyng on us, certayn, Wherethrughe truly I trow That we shalle sone pas fro this payn.
_Rybald._ Sen fyrst that h.e.l.le was mayde and I was put therin Siche sorow never ere I had, nor hard I siche a dyn,[449]
My hart begynnys to brade,[450] my wytt waxys thyn,[451]
I drede we can not be glad, thise saules mon fro us twyn;[452]
How, Belsabub! bynde thise boys, siche ”Harow”[453]
was never hard in h.e.l.le.
_Belzabub._ Out, Rybald! thou rorest what is betyd? can thou oght telle?
_Rybald._ Whi, herys[454] thou not this ugly noyse?
Thise lurdans[455] that in lymbo dwelle, They make menyng[456] of many joyse, And muster myrthes theym emelle.[457]
_Belzabub._ Myrth? nay, nay! that poynt is past, More hope of helthe shalle they never have.
_Rybald._ They cry on Crist fulle fast, And says he shalle thaym save.
_Belzabub._ Yee, though he do not, I shalle, For thay ar sparyd[458] in specyalle s.p.a.ce, Whils I am prynce and pryncypalle, Thay shalle never pas out of this place;
Calle up Astarot[459] and Anaballe, To gyf us counselle in this case; Belle, Berith and Bellyalle[460]
To mar theym that siche mastry mase;[461]
Say to sir Satan oure syre, And byd hym bryng also Sir Lucyfer lufly of lyre.[462]
_Rybald._ Alle redy, lord, I go.
_Jesus._ _Attolite portas, principes vestras, et elevamini port aeternales, et introibit rex gloriae._[463]
_Rybald._ Out, harro,[464] out!--what deville is he That callys hym kyng over us alle?
Hark Belzabub, com ne,[465]
For hedusly[466] I hard hym calle.
_Belzabub._ Go spar the yates,[467] ylle mot thou the![468]
And set the waches[469] on the walle, If that brodelle[470] come ne With us ay won[471] he shalle:
And if he more calle or cry, To make us more debate, Lay on hym hardlly, And make hym go his gate.[472]
_David._ Nay, withe hym may ye not fyght, For he is king and conqueroure, And of so mekille myght, And styf in every stoure;[473]
Of hym commys alle this light That shynys in this bowre; He is fulle fers in fight, Worthi to wyn honoure.
_Belzabub._ Honoure! harsto,[474] harlot, for what dede Alle erthly men to me ar thralle,[475]
That lad that thou callys lord in lede[476]
He had never harbor, house, ne halle;
How, sir Sathanas, com nar And hark this cursid rowte!
_Sathanas._ The dewille you alle to har![477]
What ales the so to showte?[478]
And see, if I com nar, Thy brayn bot I bryst owte.[479]
_Belzabub._ Thou must com help to spar,[480]