Classic Poem

Hail! Oure patron and lady of erthe,
Quene of heven and empress of helle,
Moder of all bliss thu art, the ferth,
Of mercy and grace the secunde welle.
Life come of thee, as the sounde of a bell.
Swetness, thu art both moder and maide,
Oure hope with thee that we may dwelle.
Hail! Full of grace, as Gabriel said.

To thee, oure socour, our helpe, oure trust,
We crye, we pray, we make oure complaint,
Exilde to prison fro gostly lust.
The childer of Adam, that so was ataynte
Of Eve, our moder, here are we dreynte.
To thee, that bindes the fendes whelpe,
We sighe, we grone; we wax all fainte
Weping for sorow; gode lady, now helpe!

Weping for sin and for oure paine,
In this derkness oure time we spende;
Of teres the comfort is a swete raine;
In the vaile of grace it will discende.
Have done, gode lady, grace is thy frende;
Therfore send us sum of thy grace.
Oure advocate, make us afore our ende
Oure sinnes to wesche whils we have space.

Thy merciful eene and lufly loke

Cast opon us for oure disporte.
And Jhesu, thy babe, that thy flesche toke,
So blissed a Lord, make us supporte,
That fruit of life may us comfort.
Of thy wome the fruit may suffise
To us, whorby we may resorte,
After this exile, to paradise.

Exile is grevos in this derk werre;
Schewe us thy lust, the stronger to fight.
Benigne lady, and our see-sterre,
O buxum lanterne, gif us thy light.
O meke, o chaste, o blisfull sight,
O swete, o kinde, o gentill and free,
Mary, with Jhesu that joyful knight,
Haile and fare wele! And thinke on me!