Quia Amore Langueo

In a tabernacle of a toure,
As I stode musing on the mone,
A crowned quene, most of honoure,
Apered in ghostly sight full sone.
She made compleint, thus, by her one:
" For mannes soule was wrapped in wo
I may nat leve mankinde alone,
Quia amore langueo.

" I longe for love of man, my brother,
I am his vokete to voide his vice;
I am his moder — I can none other —
Why shuld I my dere childe despice?
Yif he me wrathe in diverse wise,
Through fleshes freelte fall me fro,
Yet must we rewe him till he rise,
Quia amore langueo.

" I bid, I bide in grete longing;
I love, I loke when man woll crave;
I pleine for pite of peining;
Wolde he aske mercy, he shuld it have.
Say to me, soule, and I shall save,
Bid me, my childe, and I shall go:
Thou prayde me never but my son forgave,
Quia amore langueo.

" O! wreche in the worlde, I loke on thee,
I see thy trespass day by day,
With lechery ageins my chastite,
With pride agene my pore array.
My love abideth, thine is away,
My love thee calleth, thou stelest me fro.
Turne to me sinner, I thee pray,
Quia amore langueo.

" Moder of mercy I was for thee made:
Who nedeth it but thou alone?
To gete thee grace I am more glade
Than thou to aske it. Why wilt thou noon?
When seid I nay, tell me, till oon?
Forsoth, never yet to frende ne foo.
When thou askest nought, than make I moone,
Quia amore langueo.

" I seke thee in wele and wrechednesse,
I seke thee in riches and poverte.
Thou, man, beholde where thy moder is:
Why lovest thou me nat, sith I love thee?
Sinful or sory, howevere thou be,
So welcome to me there ar no mo.
I am thy sister, right trust on me,
Quia amore langueo.

" My childe is outlawed for thy sinne,
Mankinde is bette for his trespass;
Yet pricketh mine hert that so ny my kinne
Shuld be disseased. Oh! sone, alas!
Thou art his brother, his moder I was,
Thou soked my pappe, thou loved man so,
Thou died for him, mine hert he has,
Quia amore langueo.

" Man, leve thy sinne, than, for my sake.
Why shulde I gif thee that thou nat wolde?
And yet, yif thou sinne, som prayere take,
Or trust in me as I have tolde.
Am nat I thy moder called?
Why shulde I flee thee? I love thee so:
I am thy frende; I helpe, beholde,
Quia amore langueo.

" Now sone," she saide, " wilt thou sey nay,
Whan man wolde mende him of his mis?
Thou lete me never in veine yet pray.
Than, sinful man, see thou to this.
What day thou comest, welcome thou is
This hundreth yere yif thou were me fro,
I take thee full faine, I clippe, I kiss,
Quia amore langueo.

" Now wol I sit and sey no more,
Leve, and loke with grete longing.
When a man woll calle, I wol restore:
I love to save him, he is mine offspring.
No wonder yif mine hert on him hing:
He was my neighbore, what may I do?
For him had I this worshipping,
And therefore amore langueo.

" Why was I crowned and made a quene?
Why was I called of mercy the welle?
Why shuld an erthly woman bene
So high in Heven above aungell?
For thee, mankinde, the truthe I tell.
Thou aske me helpe, and I shall do
That I was ordeined — kepe thee fro hell —
Quia amore langueo.

" Nowe man have minde on me for ever,
Loke on thy love thus languishing.
Late us never fro other dissever:
Mine helpe is thine owne, crepe under my wing.
Thy sister is a quene, thy brother is a king,
This heritage is tailed — sone come therto:
Take me for thy wife and lerne to sing,
Quia amore langueo."
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.