Classic Poem

Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowdes halle.
And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every kyng befalle.

Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris hed on honde;
He saw a sterre was fayr and bryht over Bedlem stonde.

He kyst adoun the boris hed and went into the halle.

"I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle.

I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi werkes alle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

"Quat eylyt the, Stevene? quat is the befalle?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle?'

"Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

"Quat eylyt the, Stevyn? art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe, or ony ryche wede?'

"Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born schal helpyn us at our nede.'

"That is al so soth, Stevyn, al so soth, iwys,
As this capoun crowe schal that lyth here in myn dysh.'

That word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle,
The capoun crew Cristus natus est! among the lordes alle.

"Rysyt up, myn turmentowres, be to and als be on
And ledyt Stevyn out of this town, and stonyt hym wyth ston!'

Tokyn he Stevene, and stonyd hym in the way,
And therfore is his evyn on Crystes owyn day.