John Fleagle - Nou Shrinketh Rose lyrics

Nou skrinketh rose ant lylie-flour, That whilen ber that suete sauour In somer, that suete tyde; ne is no quene so stark ne stour, Ne no leuedy so bryht in bour That ded ne shal by glyde. Who-se wol fleysch lust forgon Ant heuene blis abyde, On Iesu be is thoht anon, That therled was ys side. From Petresbourh in o morewenyng, As y me wende o my pleyghyng, On mi folie y thohte; Menen y gon my mournyng To hire that ber the heuene kyng, Of merci hire bysohte: 'Ledy, preye thi sone for ous That ous duere bohte, Ant shild vs from the lothe hous That to the fend is wrohte.' My herte of dedes wes fordred, Of synne that y haue my fleish fed Ant folwed al my tyme, That y not whider I shal be led When Y lygge on dethes bed, In ioie ore into pyne. On o ledy myn hope is, Moder ant virgyne; We shulen into heuene blis Thurh hire medicine. Betere is hire medycyn Then eny mede or eny wyn. Hire erbes smulleth suete; From Catenas into Dyuelyn Nis ther non leche so fyn Oure serewes to bete. Mon that feleth eni sor, Ant his folie wol lete, Withoute gold other eny tresor He may be sound and sete. Of penaunce is his plastre al, Ant euer seruen hire y shal, Nou ant al my lyue; Nou is fre that er wes thral Al thourh that leuedy gent ant smal--- Heried be hyr ioies fiue! Wher-so eny sek is, Thider hye blyue; Thurh hire beoth ybroht to blis Bo mayden ant wyue.