[The Extraction of Souls from Hell.]
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Rhys, Ernest
Sathanas. The dewille you alle to har!477 What ales the so to showte?478 And see, if I com nar, Thy brayn bot I bryst owte.479
Belzabub. Thou must com help to spar,480 We ar beseged abowte.
Sathanas. Besegyd aboute! whi, who durst be so bold For drede to make on us a fray?
Belzabub. It is the Jew that Judas sold For to be dede this othere day.
Sathanas. How, in tyme that tale was told, That trature travesses481 us alle way; He shalle be here fulle hard in hold, Bot loke he pas not I the pray.
Belzabub. Pas! nay, nay, he wille not weynde482 From hens or it be war,483 He shapys hym for to sheynd484 Alle helle e'er he go far.
Sathanas. Fy, faturs,485 therof shalle he faylle, For alle his fare486 I hym defy; I know his trantes487 fro top to taylle,488 He lyffes by gawdes489 and glory.
Therby he broght furthe of oure baylle490 The lathe491 Lazare of Betany, Bot to the Jues I gaf counsaylle That thay shuld cause hym dy:
I entered there into Judas That forward492 to fulfylle, Therfor his hyere493 he has Alle wayes to won here stylle.494
Rybald. Sir Sathan, sen we here the say495 Thou and the Jues were at assent, And wote,496 he wan the Lazare away That unto us was taken to tent,497 Hopys thou that thou mar hym may To muster498 the malyce that he has ment? For and he refe499 us now oure pray We wille ye witt e'er he is went.
Sathanas. I byd the noght abaste500 Bot boldly make you bowne,501 Withe toyles that ye intraste,502 And dyng503 that dastard downe.
Jesus. Attolite portas, principes vestras, et elevamini portæ æternales, et introibit rex gloriæ.504
Rybald. Outt, harro!505 what harlot is he That says his kyngdom shal be cryde?
David. That may thou in sawter se,506 For of this prynce thus err I saide;507
I saide that he shuld breke Youre barres and bandes by name,508 And of youre wareks take wreke;509 Now shall thou se the same.
Jesus. Ye prynces of helle open youre yate, And let my folk furthe gone, A prynce of peasse shalle enter therat Wheder ye wille or none.
Rybald. What art thou that spekys so?
Jesus. A kyng of blys that hight Jesus.
Rybald. Yee hens fast I red510 thou go, And melle511 the not with us.
Belzabub. Oure yates512 I trow wille last, Thay ar so strong I weyn,513 Bot if oure barres brast, For the, thay shalle not twyn.514
Jesus. This stede515 shalle stande no longer stokyn;516 Open up and let my pepille pas.
Rybald. Out, harro!517 oure baylle is brokyn,518 And brusten ar alle oure bandes of bras.
Belzabub. Harro! oure yates begyn to crak, In sonder, I trow, thay go, And helle, I trow, wille all to-shak; Alas, what I am wo!519
Rybald. Lymbo is lorn, alas! Sir Sathanas, com up! This wark is wars520 than it was.
Sathanas. Yee, hangyd be thou on a cruke;521
Thefys, I bad ye shuld be bowne522 If he maide mastres523 more To dyng524 that dastard downe, Sett525 hym bothe sad and sore.
Belzabub. "So sett hym sore" that is sone saide. Com thou thi self and serve hym so; We may not abyde his bytter bradye,526 He wold us mar and we were mo.527
Sathanas. Fy, fature!528 wherfore were ye flayd?529 Have ye no force to flyt hym fro? Loke in haste my gere be grayd,530 My self shalle to that gadlyng go.531
How, thou belamy, abyde,532 Withe alle thi boste and beyr,533 And telle me in this tyde What mastres523 thou makes here.
Jesus. I make no mastry bot for myne, I wille theym save, that shalle the sow, Thou has no powere theym to pyne,534 Bot in my pryson for thare prow535
Here have thay sojornyd,--not as thyne, Bot in thi wayrd,536 thou wote as how.
Sathanas. Why, where has thou hene ay syn537 That never wold neghe538 theym nere e'er now?
Jesus. Now is the tyme certan My Fader ordand herfor,539 That they shuld pas fro payn In blys to dwelle for ever more.
Sathanas. Thy fader knew I welle by syght, He was a wright his meett to wyn,540 Mary, me mynnys,541 thi moder hight, The utmast ende of alle thy kyn:
Say who made the so mekille542 of myght?
Jesus. Thou wykyd feynde lett be thi dy[n], My Fader wonnes543 in heven on hight, In blys that never more shalle blyn:544 I am his oonly son his forward545 to fulfylle, Togeder wille we won, in sonder when we wylle.
Sathanas. Goddes son! nay, then myght thou be glad For no catelle thurt the crave;546 Bot thou has lyffed ay lyke a lad, In sorow, and as a sympille547 knave.
Jesus. That was for the hartly548 luf I had Unto man's saulle, it for to save, And for to make thee masyd549 and mad, And for that reson rufully to rafe.550
My Godhede here I hyd In Mary, moder myne, Where it shalle never be kyd551 To the, ne none of thyne.552
Sathanas. How now? this wold I were told in towne, Thou says God is thi syre; I shalle the prove by good reson Thou moyttes553 as man dos into myre.