The minister and norice unto vices, Which that men call in English idleness, The porter at the gate is of delices; T’ eschew, and by her contrar’ her oppress— That is to say, by lawful business — Well oughtë we to do our all intent, Lest that the fiend through idleness us hent.
For he, that with his thousand cordës sly Continually us waiteth to beclap, When he may man in idleness espy, He can so lightly catch him in his trap, Till that a man be hent right by the lappe, He is not ware the fiend hath him in hand; Well ought we work, and idleness withstand.
And though men dreaded never for to die, Yet see men well by reason, doubtëless, That idleness is root of sluggardý, Of which there cometh never good increase; And see that sloth them holdeth in a leas, Only to sleep, and for to eat and drink, And to devouren all that others swink.
And, for to put us from such idleness, That cause is of so great confusión, I have here done my faithful business, After the Legend, in translatión Right of thy glorious life and passión— Thou with thy garland wrought of rose and lily, Thee mean I, maid and martyr, Saint Cecílie.
And thou, thou art the flow’r of virgins all, Of whom that Bernard list so well to write, To thee at my beginning first I call; Thou comfort of us wretches, do me indite Thy maiden’s death, that won through her meríte Th’ eternal life, and o’er the fiend victóry, As man may after readen in her story.
Thou maid and mother, daughter of thy Son, Thou well of mercy, sinful soulës’ cure, In whom that God of bounté chose to won; Thou humble and high o’er every creatúre, Thou nobilest, so far forth our natúre, That