Classic Poem

Be glad, of all maidens floure,
That hast in hevene swich honoure
To passe in hye blisse
Aungeles and other seints also;
The joye is nought like ther-to
Of eny that ther isse.

Be gladde, Goddes spouse bright,
That gevest ther gretter light
To the hevenly place
Than ever dede sunne on erthe here
When it was brightest and most clere
In the midday space.

Be glad, of vertues vessel clene,
To whom obeith as right quene
The court of heven on highe,
And worschipeth withoute stinting
Thorwe thankinges and be blessing
And endeles melodie.

Be glad, moder of Jhesu dere,
That spedest alle way thy prayere
Bifore the Trinite.
As God will, swich is thy wille;
There may no wight sinful spille
On whom thou hast pite.

Be glad, moder of hevene king,
Swich he wol, after plesing,
To thy servaunt trewe
Graunt bothe mede and reward
Here and also afterward
In joye that ever is newe.

Be glad, maiden and moder swete,
Next the sone thou hast a sete,
Iglorified blisfully.
And this we saddely beleve,
But how, openly descrive
Ne may no thing erthely.

Be glad, of oure gladnesse welle,
That art seker ay to dwelle
In mirthe that hath non ende,
Which schal never were ne wast;
Ther-to bringe us, moder chast,
When we hen wende.

Thus, thou blessed quene of hevene,
I worschipe thee with joyes sevene
In alle that I may.
When I schal leve this soreful lif,
Be to me redy in that strif,
Lady, I thee pray.

Lady, for these joyes sevene
And for thy gladnesse five,
Bringe me to the blisse of hevene,
Thorwe grace of clene life.