Classic Poem

Into that park I sawe appeir
One ageit man, quhilk drew me neir,
Quhose beird wes weil thre quarteris lang.
His hair doun over his schulders hang,
The quhilk as ony snaw wes quhyte,
Quhome to behald I thocht delyte.
His habitt, angellyke of hew,
Of culloure lyke the sapheir blew.
Onder ane hollyng he reposit,
Of quhose presens I was rejosit.
I did hym saluss reverendlye,
So did he me rycht courteslye.
To sitt down he requeistit me,
Onder the schaddow of that tre
To saif me frome the sonnis heit,
Amangis the flowris, softe and sweit,
For I wes werye for walking.
Than we began to fall in talking.
I sperit his name with reverence.
" I am", said he, " Experience."
" Than schir," said I, " ye can nocht faill
To gyff ane desolate man counsaill.
Ye do appeir ane man of faime,
And, sen Experience bene your name,
I praye you, Father venerabyll,
Geve me sum counsell confortabyll.
" Quhate bene", quod he, " thy vocatioun,
Makand sic supplycatioun?"
" I haif", quod I, " bene to this hour
Sen I could ryde, one Courteour.
Bot now, Father, I thynk it best,
With your counsell, to leif in rest
And frome thynefurth to tak myne eais
And quyetlie my God to pleais
And renunce curiositie,
Leveyng the court and lerne to de.
Oft have I salit over the strandis
And travalit throuch divers landis,
Boith south and north, and east and west;
Yitt can I never fynd quhare rest
Doith mak his habitatioun,
Withoute your supportatioun.
Quhen I beleif to be best easit,
Most suddantlye I am displeasit.
Frome trubbyll, quhen I fastast fle,
Than fynd I most adversate.
Schaw me, I pray yow hartfullye,
Quhow I may leif most plesandlye,
To serve my God, of kyngis kyng,
Sen I am tyrit for travellyng.
And lerne me for to be content
Of quyet lyfe and sobir rent,
That I may thank the kyng of glore
As thocht I had ane mylyeoun more.
Sen everilk court bene variant,
Full of invy, and inconstant,
Mycht I but trubbyll leif in rest,
Now in my aige I thynk it best."
" Thow art ane gret fuill, soune," said he,
" Thyng to desyre quhilk may nocht be,
Yarnyng to have prerogatyve
Above all creature on lyfe.
Sen father Adam creat bene
In to the campe of Damassene,
Mycht no man say on to this hour
That ever he fand perfyte plesour,
Nor never sall, tyll that he se
God in his divyne majestie.
Quharefore prepair the for travell,
Sen mennis lyfe bene bot battell.
All men begynnis for tyll de
The day of thare nativite.
And journelly thay do proceid
Tyll Atrops cute the fatell threid
And in the breif tyme that thay have,
Betwix thare byrth on to thare grave,
Thow seis quhat mutabiliteis,
Quhat miserabyll calamiteis,
Quhat trubbyll, travell, and debait
Seis thow in evere mortall stait.
Begyn at pure lawe creaturis,
Ascending syne to synaturis,
To gret princis and potestatis,
Thow sall nocht fynd, in non estatis,
Sen the begynning, gennerallie,
Nor in our tyme now, speciallie,
Bot tiddious restles besynes
Bot ony maner of sickarnes."
" Prudent Father," quod I, " allace!
Ye tell to me one cairfull cace.
Ye say that no man, to this hour,
Hes found in erth perfyte plesour
Without infortunat variance.
Sen we bene thrall to sic myschance,
Quhy do we set so our intentis
On ryches, dignitie, and rentis,
Sen in the erth bene no man sure
One day but trubbyll tyll indure?
And, werst of all, quhen we leist wene,
The creuell deith we mon sustene.
Geve I your fatherheid durste demand,
The cause I wald faine understand.
And als, Father, I yow implore,
Schaw me sum trubbyll gone afore,
That heryng utheris indigence
I may the more haif patience.
Marrowis in trybulatioun
Bene wracheis consolatioun."
Quod he, " Efter my small cunnyng,
To the I sall mak answeryng,
Bot ordourlie for to begyn,
This misarie procedis of syn.
Bot it wer lang for to defyn it,
Quhow all men ar to syn inclynit.
Quhen syn aboundantlye doith ryng,
Justly, God makith punyssing.
Quharefore, gret God in to his handis
To dant the warld hes divers wandis.
Efter our evyll conditioun,
He makis on us punytioun,
With hunger, darth and indigens.
Sum tyme, gret plagis and pestilens,
And sum tyme, with his bludy wand
Throw creuell weir, be sey and land.
Concludyng, all our misarie
Proceidis of syn, alluterlie."
" Father," quod I, " declare to me
The cause of this fragyllitie,
That we bene all to syn inclynde,
In werk, in word, and in our mynde.
I wald the veritie wer schawin
Quho hes this seid amang us sawin,
And quhy we ar condampnit to dede
And quhow that we may get remede."
Quod he, " The scripture hes concludit:
Men frome felicitie wer denudit
Be Adam, our progenitour,
Umquhyle of Paradyse possessour;
Be quhose most wylfull arrogance
Wes mankynd brocht to this myschance,
Quhen he wes inobedient
In breking Godis commandiment.
Be solystatioun of his wyfe,
He loste that hevinlye plesand lyfe,
Etand of the forbiddin tre.
Thare began all our miserrie.
So Adam wes cause radicall
That we bene fragyll synnaris all.
Adam brocht in this natioun
Syn, deith, and als dampnatioun.
Quho wyll say he is no synnar,
Christ sayis he is ane gret lear.
Mankynde sprang furth of Adamis loynis
And tuke of hym flesche, blude, and bonis,
And so, efter his qualytie,
All ar inclynit synnaris to be.
Bot yit, my sonne, dispare thow nocht,
For God, that all the warld hes wrocht,
Hes maid ane soverane remede,
To saif us boith frome syn and dede
And frome etarne dampnatioun.
Tharefore tak consolatioun,
For God, as scripture doith recorde,
Haveyng of man misericorde,
Send doun his onelye sonne, Jesu,
Quhilk lychtit in one virgin trew,
And cled his heych divynitie
With our pure vyle humanytie.
Syne frome our synnis, to conclude,
He wysche us with his precious blude.
Quhowbeit, throw Adam, we mon dee,
Throuch that Lord we sall rasit bee,
And everilk man he sall releve
Quhilk in his blude dois ferme beleve,
And bryng us all unto his glore,
The quhilk throw Adam bene forlore,
Without that we, throw laik of faith,
Of his Godheid incur the wraith.
Bot quho in Christ fermely belevis
Sall be relevit frome all myschevis."
" Quhat faith is that, that ye call ferme?
Schir, gar me understand that terme."
" Faith without hope and charitie
Avalit nocht, my sonne," said he.
" Quhat charite bene? That wald I knaw."
Quod he, " My sonne, that sall I schaw.
First, lufe thy God above all thyng
And thy nychtbour but fenyeyng.
Do none injure, nor villanie,
Bot as thow wald wer done to the.
Quyk faith, but cheretabyll werkis,
Can never be, as wryttis clerkis,
More than the fyre, in tyll his mycht,
Can be but heit, nor sonne but lycht.
Geve charitie in to the failis,
Thy faith, nor hope, no thyng availis.
The Devyll hes faith, and trymlis for dreid,
Bot he wantis hope, and lufe in deid.
Do all the gude that may be wrocht:
But charitie all availis nocht.
Quharefore, pray to the Trinite
For tyll support thy charite.
Now have I schawin the, as I can,
Quhow father Adam, the first man,
Brocht in the warld boith syn and dede,
And quhow Christ Jesu maid remede,
Quhilk, on the day of Jugement,
Sall us delyver frome torment
And bryng us to his lestyng glore,
Quhilk sall indure for ever more.
Bot in this warld, thow gettis no rest,
I mak it to the manifest.
Tharefore, my sonne, be diligent
And lerne for to be patient
And in to God sett all thy traist.
All thyng sall than cum for the best."
" Father, I thank yow hartfullye
Of your conforte and cumpanye
And hevinlye consolatioun,
Makand yow supplicatioun
(Geve I durst put yow to sic pyne),
That ye wald pleis for to defyne
And gar me cleirlye understand,
Quhow Adam brak the Lordis command,
And quhow, throw his transgressioun,
Wer punyst his successioun."
" My sonne," quod he, " wald thow tak cure
To luke on the divyne scripture,
In to the buke of Genesis,
That storye thare thow sall nocht mis;
And alswa syndrie cunnyng clerkis
Hes done rehers, in to thare werkis,
Of Adamis fall, full ornatly,
Ane thousand tymes better nor I
Can wrytt of that unhappy man.
Bot I sall do the best I can,
Schortlie to schaw that cairfull cace,
With the support of Goddis grace."