no disdain the Maker had of kind, His Son in blood and flesh to clothe and wind.
Within the cloister of thy blissful sidës Took mannë’s shape th’ eternal love and peace, That of the trinë compass Lord and guide is; Whom earth, and sea, and heav’n, out of release, Aye hery; and thou, Virgin wemmëless, Bare of thy body, and dweltest maiden pure, The Creatór of every creatúre.
Assembled is in thee magnificence With mercy, goodness, and with such pitý, That thou, that art the sun of excellence, Not only helpest them that pray to thee, But oftentime, of thy benignity, Full freely, ere that men thine help beseech, Thou go’st before, and art their livës’ leech.
Now help, thou meek and blissful fairë maid, Me, flemed wretch, in this desért of gall; Think on the woman Cananée that said That whelpës eat some of the crumbës all That from their Lordë’s table be y-fall; And though that I, unworthy son of Eve, Be sinful, yet acceptë my believe.
And, for that faith is dead withoutë werkës, For to workë give me wit and space, That I be quit from thennes that most derk is; O thou, that art so fair and full of grace, Be thou mine advocate in that high place, Where as withouten end is sung Osanne, Thou Christë’s mother, daughter dear of Anne.
And of thy light my soul in prison light, That troubled is by the contagión Of my bodý, and also by the weight Of earthly lust and false affectión; O hav’n of refuge, O salvatión Of them that be in sorrow and distress, Now help, for to my work I will me dress.
Yet pray I you, that readë what I write, Forgive me that I do no diligence This ilkë story subtilly t’ indite. For both have I the wordës and senténce Of him that at the saintë’s reverence The story wrote, and follow her legénd; And pray you that you will my work amend.