Anon out of the north-est the noys bigynes,
When bothe brethes con blowe upon blo watteres.
Rogh rakkes ther ros wyth rudnyng anunder;
The see soughed ful sore, gret selly to here.
The wyndes on the wonne water so wrastel togeder
That the wawes ful wode waltered so highe
And efte busched to the abyme, that breed fysches
Durst nowhere for rogh arest at the bothem.
When the breth and the brok and the bote metten,
Hit was a joyles gyn that Jonas was inne:
For hit reled on roun upon the roghe ythes;
The bur ber to hit baft that braste alle her gere.
Then hurled on a hepe the helme and the sterne;
Furst to-murte mony rop and the mast after;
The sayl sweyed on the see. Thenne suppe bihoved
The coge of the colde water, and thenne the cry ryses.
Yet corven thay the cordes and kest al ther-oute.
Mony ladde ther forth lep to lave and to kest;
Scopen out the scathel water that fayn scape wolde:
For be monnes lode never so luther, the lyf is ay swete.
Ther was busy over-borde bale to kest,
Her bagges and her fether-beddes and her bryght wedes,
Her kysttes and her coferes, her caraldes alle,
And al to lyghten that lome, yif lethe wolde schape.
Bot ever was i-lyche loud the lot of the wyndes,
And ever wrother the water and wodder the stremes.
Then tho wery for-wroght wyst no bote,
Bot uchon glewed on his god that gayned hym beste:
Summe to Vernagu ther vouched avowes solemne,
Summe to Diana devout and derf Nepturne,
To Mahoun and to Mergot, the Mone and the Sunne,
And uche lede as he loved and layde had his hert.
Thenne bispeke the spakest, dispayred wel nere:
‘I leve here be sum losynger, sum lawles wrech
That has greved his god, and gos here amonge uus.
Lo! al synkes in his synne and for his sake marres.
I louue that we lay lotes on ledes uchone,
And whoso lympes the losse, lay hym ther-oute;
And quen the gulty is gon, what may gome trawe
Bot he that rules the rak may rwe on those other?’
This was sette in asent, and sembled thay were,
Heryed out of uche hyrne to hent that falles;
A lodesmon lyghtly lep under hachches
For to layte mo ledes and hem to lote bryng.
Bot hym fayled no freke, that he fynde myght,
Saf Jonas the Jewe, that jowked in derne:
He was flowen for ferde of the flode-lotes
Into the bothem of the bot, and on a brede lyggede,
Onhelde by the hurrock, for the heven-wrache,
Slypped upon a sloumbe-slepe, and slomberande he routes.
The freke hym frunt wyth his fot and bede hym ferk up:
‘Ther Ragnel in his rakentes hym rere of his dremes!’
Bi the here haspede he hentes hym thenne,
And broght hym up by the brest and upon borde sette,
Arayned hym ful runyschly what raysoun he hade
In such slaghtes of sorwe to slepe so faste.
Sone haf thay her sortes sette and serelych deled,
And ay the lote upon laste lymped on Jonas.
Thenne ascryed thay hym skete and asked ful loude:
‘What the devel has thou don, doted wrech?
What seches thou on see, synful schrewe,
Wyth thy lastes so luther to lose uus uchone?
Has thou, gome, no governour ne god on to calle,
That thou thus slydes on slepe when thou slayn worthes?
Of what londe art thou lent? What laytes thou here?
Whyder in worlde that thou wylt, and what is thyn arnde?
Lo! thy dom is the dyght for thy dedes ille.
Do gyf glory to thy godde er thou glyde hens.’
‘I am an Ebru’, quoth he, ‘of Israyl borne.
That wiye I worchyp, i-wysse, that wroght alle thynges—
Alle the worlde wyth the welkyn, the wynde and the sternes,
And alle that wones ther wythinne, at a worde one.
Alle this meschef for me is made at thys tyme,
For I haf greved my God and gulty am founden.
For-thy beres me to the borde and bathes me ther-oute:
Er gete ye no happe, I hope forsothe.’
He ossed hym, by unnynges that thay undernomen,
That he was flawen fro the face of frelych Dryghtyn.
Thenne such a ferde on hem fel and flayed hem wythinne
That thay ruyt hym to rowe, and letten the rynk one.
Hatheles hiyed in haste wyth ores ful longe,
Syn her sayl was hem aslypped, on sydes to rowe;
Hef and haled upon hyght to helpen hymselven.
Bot al was nedles note: that nolde not bityde.
In bluber of the blo flod bursten her ores;
Thenne hade thay noght in her honde that hem help myght.
Thenne nas no coumfort to kever ne counsel non other
Bot Jonas into his juis jugge bylyve.
Fyrst thay prayen to the Prynce that prophetes serven
That he gef hem the grace to greven hym never
That thay in baleles blod ther blenden her handes,
Thagh that hathel wer his that thay here quelled.
Tyd by top and bi to thay token hym synne,
Into that lodlych loghe thay luche hym sone.
He was no tytter out-tulde that tempest ne sessed;
The se saghtled ther-with as sone as ho moght.
Thenne thagh her takel were torne that totered on ythes,
Styffe stremes and streght hem strayned a whyle,
That drof hem dryghlych a-doun the depe to serve,
Tyl a swetter ful swythe hem sweyed to bonk.
Ther was loving on lofte, when thay the londe wonnen,
To oure mercyable God, on Moyses wyse,
Wyth sacrafyse up-set and solempne vowes;
And graunted hym on to be God, and graythly non other.
When bothe brethes con blowe upon blo watteres.
Rogh rakkes ther ros wyth rudnyng anunder;
The see soughed ful sore, gret selly to here.
The wyndes on the wonne water so wrastel togeder
That the wawes ful wode waltered so highe
And efte busched to the abyme, that breed fysches
Durst nowhere for rogh arest at the bothem.
When the breth and the brok and the bote metten,
Hit was a joyles gyn that Jonas was inne:
For hit reled on roun upon the roghe ythes;
The bur ber to hit baft that braste alle her gere.
Then hurled on a hepe the helme and the sterne;
Furst to-murte mony rop and the mast after;
The sayl sweyed on the see. Thenne suppe bihoved
The coge of the colde water, and thenne the cry ryses.
Yet corven thay the cordes and kest al ther-oute.
Mony ladde ther forth lep to lave and to kest;
Scopen out the scathel water that fayn scape wolde:
For be monnes lode never so luther, the lyf is ay swete.
Ther was busy over-borde bale to kest,
Her bagges and her fether-beddes and her bryght wedes,
Her kysttes and her coferes, her caraldes alle,
And al to lyghten that lome, yif lethe wolde schape.
Bot ever was i-lyche loud the lot of the wyndes,
And ever wrother the water and wodder the stremes.
Then tho wery for-wroght wyst no bote,
Bot uchon glewed on his god that gayned hym beste:
Summe to Vernagu ther vouched avowes solemne,
Summe to Diana devout and derf Nepturne,
To Mahoun and to Mergot, the Mone and the Sunne,
And uche lede as he loved and layde had his hert.
Thenne bispeke the spakest, dispayred wel nere:
‘I leve here be sum losynger, sum lawles wrech
That has greved his god, and gos here amonge uus.
Lo! al synkes in his synne and for his sake marres.
I louue that we lay lotes on ledes uchone,
And whoso lympes the losse, lay hym ther-oute;
And quen the gulty is gon, what may gome trawe
Bot he that rules the rak may rwe on those other?’
This was sette in asent, and sembled thay were,
Heryed out of uche hyrne to hent that falles;
A lodesmon lyghtly lep under hachches
For to layte mo ledes and hem to lote bryng.
Bot hym fayled no freke, that he fynde myght,
Saf Jonas the Jewe, that jowked in derne:
He was flowen for ferde of the flode-lotes
Into the bothem of the bot, and on a brede lyggede,
Onhelde by the hurrock, for the heven-wrache,
Slypped upon a sloumbe-slepe, and slomberande he routes.
The freke hym frunt wyth his fot and bede hym ferk up:
‘Ther Ragnel in his rakentes hym rere of his dremes!’
Bi the here haspede he hentes hym thenne,
And broght hym up by the brest and upon borde sette,
Arayned hym ful runyschly what raysoun he hade
In such slaghtes of sorwe to slepe so faste.
Sone haf thay her sortes sette and serelych deled,
And ay the lote upon laste lymped on Jonas.
Thenne ascryed thay hym skete and asked ful loude:
‘What the devel has thou don, doted wrech?
What seches thou on see, synful schrewe,
Wyth thy lastes so luther to lose uus uchone?
Has thou, gome, no governour ne god on to calle,
That thou thus slydes on slepe when thou slayn worthes?
Of what londe art thou lent? What laytes thou here?
Whyder in worlde that thou wylt, and what is thyn arnde?
Lo! thy dom is the dyght for thy dedes ille.
Do gyf glory to thy godde er thou glyde hens.’
‘I am an Ebru’, quoth he, ‘of Israyl borne.
That wiye I worchyp, i-wysse, that wroght alle thynges—
Alle the worlde wyth the welkyn, the wynde and the sternes,
And alle that wones ther wythinne, at a worde one.
Alle this meschef for me is made at thys tyme,
For I haf greved my God and gulty am founden.
For-thy beres me to the borde and bathes me ther-oute:
Er gete ye no happe, I hope forsothe.’
He ossed hym, by unnynges that thay undernomen,
That he was flawen fro the face of frelych Dryghtyn.
Thenne such a ferde on hem fel and flayed hem wythinne
That thay ruyt hym to rowe, and letten the rynk one.
Hatheles hiyed in haste wyth ores ful longe,
Syn her sayl was hem aslypped, on sydes to rowe;
Hef and haled upon hyght to helpen hymselven.
Bot al was nedles note: that nolde not bityde.
In bluber of the blo flod bursten her ores;
Thenne hade thay noght in her honde that hem help myght.
Thenne nas no coumfort to kever ne counsel non other
Bot Jonas into his juis jugge bylyve.
Fyrst thay prayen to the Prynce that prophetes serven
That he gef hem the grace to greven hym never
That thay in baleles blod ther blenden her handes,
Thagh that hathel wer his that thay here quelled.
Tyd by top and bi to thay token hym synne,
Into that lodlych loghe thay luche hym sone.
He was no tytter out-tulde that tempest ne sessed;
The se saghtled ther-with as sone as ho moght.
Thenne thagh her takel were torne that totered on ythes,
Styffe stremes and streght hem strayned a whyle,
That drof hem dryghlych a-doun the depe to serve,
Tyl a swetter ful swythe hem sweyed to bonk.
Ther was loving on lofte, when thay the londe wonnen,
To oure mercyable God, on Moyses wyse,
Wyth sacrafyse up-set and solempne vowes;
And graunted hym on to be God, and graythly non other.