Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
  & quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
  &Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
  &Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
  How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
  A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
  Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
  Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
  For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
  &Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
  For þay schal welde þis worlde & alle her wylle haue;
  Thay ar happen also þat for her harme wepes,
  For þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony;
  &Thorn;ay ar happen also þat hungeres after ry3t,
  For þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode;
  Thay ar happen also þat han in hert rauþe,
  For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worþe;
  &Thorn;ay ar happen also þat arn of hert clene,
  For þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y3en;
  Thay ar happen also þat halden her pese,
  For þay þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called;
  &Thorn;ay ar happen also þat con her hert stere,
  For hores is þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde.
  These arn þe happes alle a3t þat vus bihy3t weren,
  If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes:
  Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce þe þrydde,
  Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse,
  & þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in þerafter.
  He were happen þat hade one; alle were þe better.
  Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt þat pouerte hatte,
  I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boþe,
  For in þe tyxte þere þyse two arn in teme layde,
  Hit arn fettled in on forme, þe forme & þe laste,
  & by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede.
  & als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde:
  For þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter,
  Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oþer greme;
  & þereas pouert enpresses, þa33tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse,
  &Thorn;enne wyþer wyth & be wroth & þe wers haue.
  3if me be dy3t a destyne due to haue,
  What dowes me þe dedayn, oþer dispit make?
  Oþer 3if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde
  Oþer to ryde oþer to renne to Rome in his ernde,
  What grayþed me þe grychchyng bot grame more seche?
  Much 3if he me ne made, maugref my chekes,
  & þenne þrat moste I þole & vnþonk to mede,
  &Thorn;e had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure.
  Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle?
  To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches.
  Wyl 3e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle,
  I schal wysse yow þerwyth as holy wryt telles.
  Hit bitydde sumtyme in þe termes of Jude,
  Jonas joyned watz þerinne Jentyle prophete;
  Goddes glam to hym glod þat hym vnglad made,
  With a roghlych rurd rowned in his ere:
  'Rys radly,' He says, '& rayke forth euen;
  Nym þe way to Nynyue wythouten oþer speche,
  & in þat cete My sa3es soghe alle aboute,
  &Thorn;at in þat place, at þe poynt, I put in þi hert.
  For iwysse hit arn so wykke þat in þat won dowellez
  & her malys is so much, I may not abide,
  Bot venge Me on her vilanye & venym bilyue;
  Now swe3e Me þider swyftly & say Me þis arende.'
  When þat steuen watz stynt þat stown[e]d his mynde,
  Al he wrathed in his wyt, & wyþerly he þo3t:
  'If I bowe to His bode & bryng hem þis tale,
  & I be nummen in Nuniue, my nyes begynes:
  He telles me þose traytoures arn typped schrewes;
  I com wyth þose tyþynges, þay ta me bylyue,
  Pynez me in a prysoun, put me in stokkes,
  Wryþe me in a warlok, wrast out myn y3en.
  &Thorn;is is a meruayl message a man for to preche
  Amonge enmyes so mony & mansed fendes,
  Bot if my gaynlych God such gref to me wolde,
  Fo[r] desert of sum sake þat I slayn were.
  At alle peryles,' quoþ þe prophete, 'I aproche hit no nerre.
  I wyl me sum oþer waye þat He ne wayte after;
  I schal tee into Tarce & tary þere a whyle,
  & ly3tly when I am lest He letes me alone.'
  &Thorn;enne he ryses radly & raykes bilyue,
  Jonas toward port Japh, ay janglande for tene
  &Thorn;at he nolde þole for noþyng non of þose pynes,
Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)
Collection  Edit     

Submitted on May 13, 2011


Discuss this Anonymous Americas poem with the community:



    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)


    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


    "Patience" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 29 Sep. 2020. <>.

    We need you!

    Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

    Other poems by

    Anonymous Americas


    Our favorite collection of

    Famous Poets


    Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.