Poetry

Adamas and Eva

WmLom ther was, dwellyng in Paradys Our fader Adamas with Eve hys wyf. They nere not sinful folk in any wys But angelyk they lived, withouten stryf : They moughte so have lived al her lyf Dronk the clene wel withouten Detlie's curse But out, alias, al fel as I reherse.

O hellish Sathanas, fe6nd dampnable.

O corsed foul/5 wrecche, soth to say. Thou wast so wlatsom, so abhominable, And eke so mordrous without any nay, Thou didst persuade Eva welaway To take the greene pomme from the tre O fatal apple seed of miserie.

For as hit fel by dominacioun Of thine derke sterres, as I gesse Or rede Mars in opposicimm" To Fortune's brighte sterres, More or Lesse, Or declinacioun of lukkinesse, God wot, I nis no more than a babe.

Redith thise clerkes on the Astrolabe.

But so hit fel that Adam is ygo Out of thys garden for a day or twey Him lists se the wilde horses go Thise litel prety Centaures, soth to sey, So forth he Both though Eva said him nay He careth never a del, forth is he went.

Now Sathanas, let launch thy fel intent.

This corsed wrecche, I mene this Sathanas, Upon his bely sobtilely doth crawl Into thys garden on the grene gras Ther as the thikke heggii has i-fal Or els .a mous had eten through the wal And left an hole : he on his bely crepith To the grene bour therms Eva slepith.

O Judas of dissimulacioun, O false Ganelon of evil lukke, Fly, sparwe, fly, with informacioun, Beth Adam ware the feend is with hys chukke O pypen, blisful goos, o quakke dukke, Warn sely Eva sleping in the bour Ther comth this false corsed tregetour.

But as thys Cato saith in Scipioun, In his old boke -that thise clerkes rede, " Though all men shryken Morder in the toun What botes it, if the wrecche have done the deed ? "

The woful eors, forblodied, skarlet-reed, Getteth no gost, for al they cry Alias.

Now comth this Sathanas where Eva was.

O sely Eva, moder of us al, Thou wast to nyce and grene, ye, God woot, The rede apple round as is a bal Goth doun the sclendre golet of thy throot ; Thou ettist it when thou wast tolde moot . . Wepe, Adam, wepe, thy wyf hath lost hir sense. Sewith thy napron, farewel innocence.

For ye han herd how Adamas and Eve For apple-take were chased out of hir bour. Where the swete birdis sang in'the green leve

• They might nat stop a minute ne an hour. Their salts tetes 'Wetted many a flour, Hem listed • nat to wenden wel away, But out they went, ther nis namore to say.

JOHN MASEFIELD.