Three hymns to the Virgin

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Three hymns to the Virgin

Of on that is so fayr and bright [ca. 1300][edit]

Of on that is so fayr and bright
     Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light
     Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
     Tam pia
That ic mote come to thee
     Maria

Al this world was for-lore
     Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
     De te genetrice.
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and cometh the day
     Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the
     Virtutis.

Levedy, flour of alle thing,
     Rosa sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
     Gratia divina:
Of alle thu berst the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys
     Electa:
Mayde milde, Moder es
     Effecta.

Iesu, swete sone dere! [ca. 1375][edit]

Iesu, swete sone dere!
On porful bed list thou here,
     And that me greveth sore;
For thi cradel is ase a bere,
Oxe and asse beth thi fere:
     Weepe ich mai tharfore.

Iesu, swete, beo noth wroth,
Thou ich nabbe clout ne cloth
     The on for to folde,
     The on to folde ne to wrappe,
For ich nabbe clout ne lappe;
Bote ley thou thi fet to my pappe,
     And wite the from the colde.

Of a rose, a lovely rose, of a rose is al myn song [ca. 1400][edit]

Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
     In al this word ne knowe I non.

The aungil came fro hevene tour
To grete Marye with gret honour,
And seyde sche xuld bere the flour
     That xulde breke the fyndes bond.

The flour sprong in heye Bedlem,
That is bothe bryht and schen:
The rose is Mary, hevene qwen,
     Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.

The ferste braunche is ful of myht,
That sprong on Cyrstemesse nyht,
The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht,
     That is bothe brod and long.

The secunde braunche sprong to helle,
The fendys power doun to felle:
Therein myht non sowle dwelle;
     Blyssid be the time the rose sprong!

The thredde braunche is good and swote,
It sprang to hevene, crop and rote,
Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote;
     Every day it schewit in prystes hond.

Prey we to here with gret honour,
She that bar the blyssid flowr,
She be our helpe and our socour,
     And schyld us fro the fyndes bond.