MERCY, LORD, I calle and crye,
Thi mercy is redy in every place,
Thowg I have lyved full synfullye,
I putte me fully in thi grace.
There is no synne before thi face
So grete as mercy and pyte,
To synfull man thou were neve scace
Of ne reminiscaris Domine.
To me thi mercy multiplye,
And lese nogt that thou hast bowgt,
Putte awey, Lord, gracyouslye
My wicked werkys that I have wrowgt:
* Thomas Brampton, 1414. I have selected the 51st psalm of this early translator from a beautiful vellum MS. of the seven penitential psalms rendered by him, and preserved in the British Museum. It has, I think, considerable merit as a composition, whilst its antiquity renders it so venerable, as to make me depart from my rule of printing specimens of our earlier poets in modern orthography, and give it verbatim et literatim.
Thowg I thi mercy deserve nowgt,
Gyt it is thi propirte
To spare them that mekely sowgt
Ne reminiscaris Domine.
Wassche me, Lord, ferthermore
Fro synne that grevyth me ful ille,
That there leve no prevy sore,
Ne circumstaunce that longyth ther tylle;
Make me clene fro woord and wylle,
And kepe me for thyn honeste.
Therefore I presente the this bylle,
Ne reminiscaris Domine.
I am aknowe my synfull lyif,
That I have led fro tendyr age,
But gyf thi mercy to me were ryif,
To peyne schulde be my pilgrymage;
Myn owen dedys that ben outrage,
Before thi syght accusyn me,
But to thi mercy I do homage,
Ne reminiscaris Domine.
I have synned to the alone;
And forfetyd ofte before thi sygt,
Gyt I will leve my synnes ilk one,
Grace and mercy thou hast behygt,
Schewe, Lord, how they do unryght, That seyn thou wylt nogt vewe on me, Whanne I crye bothe day and nyght Ne reminiscaris Domine.
Of my modyr I was conceyved
In synne, and so was every chylde,
After that Adam was dysceyved,
Saaf Cryist alone and Marie mylde,
The feend ther to hath maad ful wylde
My flesch, my soule with inne me,
But gyf I kume the bettyr bylde
Ne reminiscaris Domine.
Gyf I my synne will nogt excuse
But telle it trewly as it is,
I truste thou will nogt me refuse,
Thowg I do ofte tyme amys.
Thanne thi wisdom will me wis
To knowe so weel thi pryvyte,
That I schal nogt fayle of thys
Ne reminiscaris Domine.
Sprenkle me, Lord, with watyr of terys, That myn herte be purgyd clene,
Wylle me fro my wylde gerys,
And wassche my synne awey be dene,
As snow that fallyth in fyldes grene
Is whyght and brygt so schal I be,
Thanne schal the werkyng be ful sene
Of ne reminiscaris Domine.
My synne gyf I nogt defonde,
But aske mercy with sorwefull chere,
And my lyif mekely amende,
God will my loove gladly here;
He will nogt lese that is bowgt dere
Wyth bytter deth up on a tre
As longe as we wyll lowely bere
Seye, ne reminiscaris Domine.
My wicked werkys thou putte awey,
And fro my synnes turne thi face,
Sorwe and syghyng is my pley,
Wher evere I be in ony place;
I am noght worthy to have thi grace,
And rygtwysnesse I may nogt fle,
But, myghtfull Lord, be nogt scace
Of ne reminiscaris Domine.
Myn herte hath be dyffoyled with synne,
My spirit was to the untrewe,
Clense me, Lord, therfore with inne,
A ryghtful spiryte in me renewe,
That I may evere synne esschewe
And gyf I forfete of frealte
Fro thi face caste thou me nougt,
Thowg I be untrewe and unkynde,
Gyf I trespace in dede or thougt
Lete nogt thi mercy be behynde,
Of my frealnesse, gode Lord, have mynde
Thyn holy spirite take nogt fro me,
And gyf thou do, how shall I fynde
Ne reminiscaris Dumine.
Fadyr that art of myghtes most,
Graunt me gladnesse of soulys hele,
Conferme me with the holy gost,
And lete me nevere with feendys dele;
Forsake me not in wo, ne in wele,
For evere I have nede to the,
And gyf thou do I will apele
To ne reminiscaris Domine.
The weyis that ben to God in hye,
Ful gladly I schal telle and teche;
Wher evere I be in cumpanye,
Of the only schal be my speche,
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