The Creation of the World and the Fall of Adam and Eve

Now hevyn is made for aungell sake
þe fyrst day and þe fyrst nyth.
The secunde day watyr I make,
The walkyn also, ful fayr and [br]yth.
The iijde day I parte watyr from erthe;
Tre and every growyng thyng,
Bothe erbe and floure of suete smellyng,
The jijde day is made be my werkyng.
Now make I þe day þat xal be þe ferthe.
Sunne, and mone, and sterrys also
þe forthe day I make in-same.
þe vte day werm and fysch þat swymme and go,
Byrdys and bestys, bothe wylde and tame.
The sexte day my werk I do
And make þe, man, Adam be name.
In erthelech paradys withowtyn wo
I graunt þe bydyng, lasse þu do blame.
Flesch of þi flesch and bon of þi bon,
Adam, here is þi wyf and make.
Bothe fysche and foulys þat swymmyn and gon,
To everych of hem a name þu take;
Bothe tre, and frute, and bestys echon,
Red and qwyte, bothe blew and blake,
þu 3eve hem name be þiself alon,
Erbys and gresse, both beetys and brake;
þi wyff þu 3eve name also.
Loke þat 3e not ses
3owre frute to encres,
þat þer may be pres,
Me worchipe for to do.
Now come forth, Adam, to paradys;
Ther xalt þu haue all maner thynge:
Bothe flesch, and fysch, and frute of prys,
All xal be buxum at þi byddyng.
Here is pepyr, pyan, and swete lycorys;
Take hem all at þi lykyng,
Bothe appel, and pere, and gentyl rys —
But towche nowth þis tre þat is of cunnyng.
Allthynge saff þis for þe is wrought.
Here is allþinge þat þe xulde plese
All redy made onto þin ese.
Ete not þis frute ne me dysplese,
For than þu deyst, þu skapyst nowth!
Now haue I made all thynge of nowth,
Hevyn and erth, foull and best.
To allthynge þat myn hand hath wrowth
I graunt myn blyssyng þat evyr xal lest.
My wey to hefne is redy sowth,
Of werkyng I wole be vijte day rest.
And all my creaturys þat be abowth,
My blyssyng 3e haue both est and west.
Of werkyng þe vijte day 3e sees.
And all þo þat sees of laboryng here
þe vijte day, withowtyn dwere,
And wurchyp me in good manere,
þei xal in hefne haue endles pes.
Adam, go forth and be prynce in place,
For to hefne I sped my way.
þi wyttys wel loke þu chase,
And gostly gouerne þe as I say.
Holy Fadyr, blyssyd þu be,
For I may walke in welthe anow.
I fynde datys gret plenté
And many fele frutys ful every bow.
All þis wele is 3ovyn to me
And to my wyf þat on me lowh.
I haue no nede to towche 3on tre,
A3ens my Lordys wyl to werke now.
I am a good gardenere.
Euery frute of ryche name
I may gaderyn with gle and game.
To breke þat bond I were to blame
þat my Lord bad me kepyn here.
We may both be blythe and glad
Oure Lordys comaundement to fulfyll.
With fele frutys be we fayr fad,
Woundyr dowcet and nevyr on ill.
Euery tre with frute is sprad,
Of them to take as plesyth us tyll.
Oure wytte were rakyl and ovyrdon bad
To forfete ageyns oure Lordys wyll
In ony wyse.
In þis gardeyn I wyl go se
All þe flourys of fayr bewté,
And tastyn þe frutys of gret plenté
þat be in paradyse.
Heyl, fayr wyff and comely dame,
þis frute to ete I þe cownselle.
Take þis appyl and ete þis same;
þis frute is best, as I þe telle.
That appyl to ete I were to blame!
From joy oure Lorde wolde us expelle.
We xuld dye and be put out with schame,
In joye of paradyse nevyrmore to duelle.
God hymself þus sayde.
What day of þat frute we ete,
With þese wurdys God dyd us threte,
þat we xuld dye, oure lyff to lete.
þerffore I am affrayde.
Of þis appyl yf 3e wyl byte,
Evyn as God is, so xal 3e be:
Wys of connyng, as I 3ow plyte,
Lyke onto God in al degré.
Sunne, and mone, and sterrys bryth,
Fysch and foule, boþe sond and se,
At 3oure byddyng bothe day and nyth,
Allthynge xal be in 3owre powsté:
3e xal be Goddys pere!
Take þis appyl in þin hond
And to byte þerof þu fond.
Take another to þin husbond;
þerof haue þu no dwere.
So wys as God is in his gret mayn
And felaw in kunnyng, fayn wold I be.
Ete þis appyl and in certeyn,
þat I am trewe sone xalt þu se.
To myn husbond with herte ful fayn
þis appyl I bere, as þu byddyst me.
þis frute to ete I xal asayn
So wys as God is yf we may be,
And Goddys pere of myth.
To myn husbond I walke my way,
And of þis appyl I xal asay
To make hym to ete, yf þat I may,
And of þis frewte to byth.

Hic Eua reueniet Ade viro suo a dicet ei:

My semely spowse and good husbond,
Lystenyth to me, sere, I 3ow pray:
Take þis fayr appyl all in 3oure hond,
þerof a mursel byte and asay.
To ete þis appyl loke þat 3e fonde,
Goddys felaw to be alway,
All his wysdam to vndyrstonde,
And Goddys pere to be for ay,
Allthyng for to make:
Both fysch and foule, se and sond,
Byrd and best, watyr and lond.
þis appyl þu take out of myn bond;
A bete þerof þu take.
I dare not towch þin hand for dred
Of oure Lord God omnypotent!
If I xuld werke aftyr þi reed,
Of God oure Makere I xuld be shent.
If þat we do þis synful dede,
We xal be ded by Goddys jugement!
Out of þin hand with hasty spede
Cast out þat appyl anon present
For fer of Goddys threte!
Of þis appyl yfþu wylt byte,
Goddys pere þu xalt be pyht,
So wys of kunnyng, I þe plyht,
þis frute yf þu wylt ete.
If we it ete ouresclf we kylle.
As God us tolde, we xuld be ded.
To ete þat frute and my lyf to spylle,
I dar not do aftyr þi reed.
A fayr aungell þus seyd me tylle:
’To ete þat appyl take nevyr no dred.
So kunnyng as God in hevyn hille
þu xalt sone be withinne a sted’.
þerfore þis frute þu ete.
Off Goddys wysdam for to lere,
And in kunnyng to be his pere,
Of thyn hand I take it here,
And xal sone tast þis mete.

Adam dicit sic:

Alas, alas for þis fals dede!
My flesly frend my fo I fynde.
Schameful synne doth us vnhede:
I se vs nakyd before and behynde.
Oure Lordys wurd wold we not drede,
þerfore we be now caytyvys vnkynde.
Oure pore pryuytés for to hede
Summe fygge levys fayn wolde I fynde,
For to hyde oure schame.
Womman, ley þis leff on þi pryvyté,
And with þis leff I xal hyde me.
Gret schame it is vs nakyd to se,
Oure Lord God þus to grame.
Alas, þat evyr þat speche was spokyn
þat be fals aungel seyd onto me!
Alas, oure Makers byddyng is brokyn,
For I haue towchyd his owyn dere tre!
Oure flescly eyn byn al vnlokyn;
Nakyd for synne ouresylf we se.
þat sory appyl þat we han sokyn
To deth hath brouth my spouse and me.
Ryth grevous is oure synne.
Of mekyl shame now do we knowe,
Alas, þat evyr þis appyl was growe!
To dredful deth now be we throwe,
In peyne vs evyr to pynne.
Adam, þat with myn handys I made,
Where art þu now? What hast þu wrought?
A, Lord, for synne oure flourys do fade.
I here þi voys but I se þe nought.
Adam, why hast þu synnyd so sone,
þus hastyly to breke my bone?
And I made þe maystyr vndyr mone,
Trewly of euery tre.
O tre I kept for my owe,
Lyff and deth þerin I knowe.
þi synne fro lyf now þe hath throwe —
From deth þu mayst not fle.
Lord, I haue wrought a3ens þi wyll!
I sparyd nat mysylf to spylle.
þe woman þat þu toke me tylle,
Sche brougth me þerto!
It was here counsell and here reed;
Sche bad me do be same deed.
I walke as worm, withowtyn wede,
Awey is schrowde and sho.
Womman þat arte þis mannys wyffe,
Why hast þu steryd 3oure bothers stryffe?
Now 3e be from 3oure fayr lyffe,
And are demyd for to deye.
Vnwys womman, sey me why
þat þu hast don þis fowle foly.
And I made þe a gret lady
In paradys for to pleye.
Lord, whan þu wentyst from þis place,
A werm with an aungelys face,
He hyth vs to be ful of grace,
þe frute yf þat we ete.
I dyd his byddyng, alas, alas!
Now we be bowndyn in dethis las.
I suppose it was Sathanas;
To peyne he gan vs pete.
Thou werm with þi wylys wyk,
þi fals fablis, þei be ful thyk!
Why hast þu put dethis pryk
In Adam and his wyff?
Thow þei bothyn my byddyng haue brokyn,
Out of whoo 3et art not wrokyn.
In helle logge þu xalt be loky[n],
And nevyrmo lacche lyff.
I xal be sey whereffore and why
I dede hem all þis velony:
For I am ful of gret envy,
Of wreth and wyckyd hate
That man xulde leve above þe sky,
Whereas sumtyme dwellyd I;
And now I am cast to helle sty,
Streyte out at hevyn gate.
Adam, for þu þat appyl boot
A3ens my byddyng, well I woot,
Go teyl þi mete with swynk and swoot
Into þi lyvys ende;
Goo nakyd, vngry, and barefoot,
Ete both erbys, gres, and root.
Thy bale hath non other boot.
As wrecch in werlde þu wende.
Womman, þu sowtyst þis synnyng
And bad hym breke myn byddyng.
þerfore þu xalt ben vndyrlyng;
To mannys byddyng bend.
What he byddyth þe, do þu þat thynge,
And bere þi chyldere with gret gronynge,
In daungere and in deth-dredynge
Into þi lyvys ende.
Thou wyckyd worm, ful of pryde,
Fowle envye syt be þi syde!
Vpon þi gutt þu xalt glyde,
As werm wyckyd in kende,
Tyl a maydon in medyl-erth be born.
þu fende, I warn þe beforn,
Thorwe here þi bed xal be to-torn.
On wombe awey þu wende.
At þi byddyng fowle I falle,
I krepe hom to my stynkyng stalle.
Helle pyt and hevyn halle
Xul do þi byddyng bone.
I falle down here a fowle freke;
For þis falle I gynne to qweke.
With a fart my brech I breke!
My sorwe comyth ful sone.
For 3oure synne þat 3e haue do,
Out of þis blysse sone xal 3e go,
In erthly labour to levyn in wo,
And sorwe ye xal atast.
For 3oure synne and mysdoyng
An angell with a swerd brennyng,
Out of þis joye he xal 3ow dyng.
3oure welth awey is past.

Hic recedit Deus, a angelus seraphicus cum gladio flamme[o] verberat Adam et Euam extra paradisum

3e wrecchis vnkend and ryht vnwyse,
Out of þis joye hy3 3ow in hast!
With flammyng swerd from paradyse
To peyn I bete 3ow, of care to tast.
3oure myrth is turnyd to carfull syse,
3oure welth with synne awey is wast.
For 3oure false dede of synful gyse
þis blysse I spere from 3ow ryth fast.
Herein come 3e no more
Tyl a chylde of a mayd be born
And vpon þe rode rent and torn
To saue all þat 3e haue forlorn,
3oure welth for to restore.
Alas, alas, and weleaway,
þat evyr towchyd I þe tre!
I wende as wrecch in welsom way;
In blake busshys my boure xal be.
In paradys is plenté of pleye,
Fayr frutys ryth gret plenté;
þe 3atys be schet with Godys keye.
My husbond is lost because of me.
Leve spowse, now þu fonde.
Now stomble we on stalk and ston.
My wyt awey is fro me gon!
Wrythe onto my neckebon
With hardnesse of þin honde.
Wyff, þi wytt is not wurth a rosch.
Leve woman, turne þi thought.
I wyl not sle flesc[h] of my flesch,
For of my flesch þi flesch was wrought.
Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesch
To paradys whan we were brought.
My wepyng xal be longe fresch,
Schort lykyng xal be longe bought.
No more telle þu þat tale.
For yf I xulde sle my wyff,
I sclow myself withowtyn knyff,
In helle logge to lede my lyff,
With woo in wepyng dale.
But lete vs walke forth into þe londe,
With ryth gret labour oure fode to fynde,
With delvyng and dyggyng with myn hond,
Oure blysse to bale and care to-pynde.
And, wyff, to spynne now must þu fonde,
Oure nakyd bodyes in cloth to wynde
Tyll sum comforth of Godys sonde
With grace releve oure careful mynde.
Now come, go we hens, wyff.
Alas þat ever we wrought þis synne!
Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne,
3e must delve and I xal spynne,

2018 Nov 26  10:12:49