Classic Poem

Lordynges þat be now here,
If ge wille listene and lere
Alle þe story of Inglande
Als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand,
And on Inglysch has it schewed,
Not for þe lerid, bot for þe lewed;
For þo þat in his land won
þat þe Latyn no Frankys con,
For to haf solace and gamen
In felawschip when þai sitt samen.
And it is wisdom forto wytten
þe state of þe land and haf it wryten:
What manere of folk first it wan
And of what kynde it first began.
And gude it is for many thynges
For to here þe dedis of kynges —
Whilk were foles and whilk were wyse,
And whilk of þam couth mast quantyse,
And whilk did wrong and whilk ryght,
And whilk mayntend pes and fyght.
Of þare dedes salle be my sawe;
And what tyme and of what lawe
I salle gow schewe fro gre to gre
Sen þe tyme of Sir Noe,
Fro Noe unto Eneas,
And what betwix þam was.
And fro Eneas tille Brutus tyme,
þat kynde he telles in þis ryme,
Fro Brutus tille Cadwaladres,
þe last Bryton þat þis lande lees:
Alle þat kynde and alle þe frute
þat come of Brutus, þat is þe Brute .
And þe ryght Brute is told nomore
þan þe Brytons tyme wore;
After þe Bretons þe Inglis camen,
þe lordschip of þis lande þai namen.
South and north, west and est,
þat calle men now þe Inglis gest;
When þai first amang þe Bretons
þat now ere Inglis, þan were Saxons.
Saxons, Inglis hight alle oliche,
þai aryved up at Sandwyche
In þe kynges tyme, Vortogerne
þat þe lande walde þam not werne,
þat were maysters of alle þe togider:
Hengist he hight, and Hors his broþire,
þes were hede, als we fynde,
Whereof is comen oure Inglis kynde.
A hundreth and fifty gere þai com
Or þai receyved Cristendom;
So lang woned þai þis lande in
Or þai herde out of Saynt Austyn.
Amang þe Bretons with mykelle wo,
In sclaundire, in threte, and in thro,
þes Inglis dedes ge may here
As Pers telles alle þe manere.
One mayster Wace þe Frankes telles
þe Brute, alle þat þe Latyn spelles,
Fro Eneas tille Cadwaladre.
þis mayster Wace þer leves he;
And ryght as mayster Wace says,
I telle myn Inglis þe same ways,
For mayster Wace þe Latyn alle rymes
þat Pers overhippis many tymes.
Mayster Wace þe Brute alle redes,
And Pers tellis alle þe Inglis dedes;
þer Mayster Wace of þe Brute left,
Ryght begynnes Pers eft,
And tellis forth þe Inglis story,
And as he says þan say I.
Als þai haf wryten and sayd
Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd
In symple speche, as I couth,
þat is lightest in mannes mouth.
I mad noght for no disours,
Ne for no seggers, no harpours,
Bot for þe luf of symple men
þat strange Inglis can not ken.
For many it here þat strange Inglis
In ryme, wate never what it is;
And bot þai wist what it mente,
Ellis me thoght it were alle schente;
I made it not forto be praysed,
Bot at þe lewed men were aysed.
If it were made in ryme couwee,
Or in strangere or enterlace,
þat rede Inglis it ere inowe
þat couthe not haf coppled a kowe,
þat outhere in couwee or in baston,
Som suld haf ben fordon,
So þat fele men þat it herde
Suld not witte howe þat it ferde.
I see in song, in sedgeyng tale
Of Erceldoun and of Kendale:
Non þam says as þai þam wroght,
And in þer sayng it semes noght.
þat may þou here in Sir Tristrem,
Over gestes it has þe steem
Over alle þat is or was,
If men it sayd as made Thomas.
Bot I here it no man so say
þat of som copple, som is away
So þare fayre sayng here beforn,
Is þare travayle nere forlorn;
þai sayd it for pride and nobleye
þat non were suylk as þer,
And alle þat þai wild overwhere,
Alle þat ilk wille now forfare.
þai sayd in so quante Inglis
þat manyone wate not what it is;
þerfore hevyed wele þe more
In strange ryme to travayle sore;
And my witte was ovre thynne,
So strange speche to travayle in.
And forsoth I couth noght
So strange Inglis as þai wroght.
And men besoght me many a tyme
To turne it bot in light ryme;
þai sayd if I in strange it turne,
To here it manyon suld skurne,
For it ere names fulle selcouth
þat ere not used now in mouth.
And þerfore for þe comonalte
þat blythely wild listen to me,
On light lange I it began
For luf of þe lewed man;
To telle þam þe chaunces bolde
þat here before was don and tolde.
For þis makyng I wille no mede
Bot gude prayere when ge it rede.
þerfore ge lordes lewed
For wham I haf þis Inglis schewed,
Prayes to God he gyf me grace:
I travayled for gour solace.
Of Brunne I am if any me blame,
Robert Mannyng is my name.
Blissid be he of God of heven
þat me, Robert, with gude wille neven.
In þe thrid Edwardes tyme was I
When I wrote alle þis story.
In þe hous of Sixille I was a throwe;
Dang Robert of Malton, þat ge know,
Did it wryte for felawes sake
When þai wild solace make.
Dares þe Freson of Troie first wrote
And putt it in buke þat we now wote;
He was a clerk and a gude knyght.
When Troie was lorn, he sawe þat fight.
Alle þe barons wele he knewe:
He tellis þer stature and þer hewe,
Long or schorte, whyte or blak,
Alle he telles gude or lak
Alle þer lymmes how þai besemed;
In his buke has Dares demed,
Both of Troie and of Grece,
What kyns schappe was ilka pece.
Of manyon he reknes and sayes,
Both of Troiens and of Gregeis,
þat it were over long to telle;
And many wald not þerin duelle
þare names alle for to here.
Bot þe Latyn is fayre to lere:
Geffrey Arthure of Minumue
Fro Breton speche he did remue
And made it alle in Latyn
þat clerkes haf now knawyng in.
In Gloucestre was fonden a buke
þat þe Inglis couthe not rede no luke.
On þat langage þai knew no herde,
Bot an erle þat hyght Roberde,
He prayed þat ilk clerk Geffrey
To turne it fro þat speche away
Into Latyn, as it mente
þat þe Inglis mot know þe entente;
For Geffrey knew þe langage wele,
In Latyn he broght it ilka dele.
Siþen com a clerk, Mayster Wace,
To make romance had he grace,
And turned it fro Latyne
And rymed it in Frankis fyne,
Unto þe Cadwaladres' —
No forer, þer makes he ses.
Als Geffrey in Latyn sayd,
So Mayster Wace in Frankis layd.
þe date of Criste was þan þis lyve,
A thousand gere fifty and fyve.
Than com out of Brydlyngton
Pers of Langtoft, a chanon.
Als Mayster Wace þe same he says,
Bot he rymed it oper ways.
He begynnes at Eneas,
Of alle þe Brute he tellis þe pas:
And siþen alle þe Inglis dedis:
Feyrere langage non ne redis.
After þe Inglis kynges, he says þer pris,
þat alle in metir fulle wele lys.
And I, Robert, fulle fayn wald bringe
In Ynglis tonge þer faire saiynge.
God gyf me grace wele to spede
þis ryme on Inglis forto rede.
Now of þe story wille we gynne
When God toke wreke of Caym synne.