About the Author:
In the early 14th century, the bubonic plague, the Black Death as it was called, swept through Europe, killing as much as half the population. Europeans suddenly had a sense of the presence of death among them, always ready to snatch them away. A French poet expressed this as the Danse Macabre, the Dance of Death. Soon the theme appeared in England, drawn on a series of murals in the cloister at Saint Paul’s Cathedral in London. The poet and traveller John Lydgate translated the French poem into English. After an introduction, it features conversations between death and the people who must die – everyone from Pope to Emperor to the barons and their ladies to little children. A few of these exchanges are included here.
Deeth to the Emperour
Sir Emperour, lorde of al the ground, Soverein prince and hiest of noblesse: Ye must forsake of golde your appil round, Septre and swerd and al youre hy prowesse. Behinde leve your tresour and ricchesse, And with othir to my daunce obeie. Agein my myght is worth noon hardinesse; Adamis children alle thei mosten deie.
The Emperour answerith
I not to whom that I may apele Touching Deth wiche doth me so constreine. Ther is no gein to helpe my querele, But spade and pikois my grave to ateyne, A simple shete — ther is no more to seyne — To wrappe in my body and visage, Therupon sore I may compleine That lordis grete have litel avauntage.
—
Deeth to the Astronomere
Come forthe, maister, that loken up so ferre With instrumentis of astronomy To take the grees and heighte of every sterre. What may availe al youre astrologie, Sethen of Adam alle the genolagie, Made ferst of God to walke uppon the grounde, Deeth dooth areste? Thus seith theologie, And al shal die for an appil round.
The Astronomere answerith
For al my craft, kunnynge, or science I cannot finde no provisioun, Ne in the sterris serche oute no defence, By domefiynge ne calculacioun, Safe finally — in conclusioun — For to discrive oure kunnyng every dele, Ther is no more by sentence of resoun: Who lyveth aright mote nedis dye wele.
—
Deeth to the Frere Minour
Sir Cordeler, to yow myn hand is raught To this daunce yow to conveie and lede, Wiche in youre preching have ful ofte itaught: Howe that I am moste gastful forto drede (Al be that folke take therof noon hede). Yit is ther noon so stronge ne so hardy, But Deth dare reste and let for no mede, For Deeth eche hour is present and redy.
The Frere answerith
What may this be that in this world no man Here to abide may have no sureté? Strengthe, ricchesse, ne what so that he can, Worldly wisdom: al is but vanité. In grete astate ne in poverté Is nothing found that may fro Dethe defende. For wiche I seie, to hie and lowe degré, Wys is that synner that dooth his life amende.
—
Deeth to the Amerous Squier
Ye that be gentil, so fresshe and amerous, Of yeres yonge, flouringe in youre grene age, Lusty, free of herte, and eke desirous, Ful of devises and chaunge in youre corage, Plesaunt of port, of look, and of visage — But al shal turne into asshes dede, For al bewté is but a feint ymage, Wiche stelith aweye or folkes can take hede.
The Squier answerith
Allas, allas I can nowe no socour Agens Dethe for mysilfe provide. Adieu, of youthe the lusty fresshe flour, Adieu, veinglorie of bewté and of pride, Adieu, al service of the god Cupide, Adieu, my ladies, so fressh, so wel besein, For agein Dethe nothing may abide, And windes grete gon doun with litil reyn.
—
Deeth to the Laborer
Thou, laborer, wiche in sorwe and peine Hast lad thi life in ful greet travaile, Thou moste eke daunce and therfore not disdeyne, For if thou do, it may thee not availe. And cause why that I thee assaile Is oonly this: from thee to dissevere The fals worlde that can so folke faile. He is a fool that weneth to lyve evere.
The Laborer answerith
I have wisshed aftir Deeth ful ofte, Al be that I wolde have fled hym now — I had levere to have leyn unsofte In winde and reyn and have gone at plow, With spade and pikoys and labourid for my prow, Dolve and diched and at the carte goone. For I may seie and telle pleinly howe In this worlde here ther is reste none.
—
Deeth to the Childe
Litel enfaunte that were but late borne, Shape in this worlde to have no plesaunce, Thou must with other that goone here toforn Be lad in haste by fatal ordinaunce. Lerne of newe to goo on my daunce, Ther may noon age escape in soth therfroo. Lete every wight have this in remembraunce : Who lengest lyveth moost shal suffre woo.
The Childe answerith
A, A, A — o worde I cannot speke. I am so yonge, I was bore yisterday. Deeth is so hasty on me to be wreke And list no lenger to make no delay. I cam but nowe and nowe I goo my way, Of me no more no tale shal be told. The wil of God no man withstonde may, As sone dieth a yonge man as an old.
—
Deeth to the Hermyte
Ye that have lived longe in wildernesse And ther contynued longe in abstinence; Atte laste yet ye mote yow dresse Of my daunce to have experience, For ther agein is no recistence. Take nowe leve of thin ermytage. Wherfore eche man adverte this sentence: That this life here is no sure heritage.
The Hermite answerith
Life in desert callid solitarie May agein Dethe have no respite ne space. At unset our his comyng doth not tarie, And for my part welcome be Goddes grace, Thonkyng hym with humble chere and face Of al his yiftes and greet haboundaunce, Fynally affermynge in this place, No man is riche that lackith suffisaunce. Deeth ayein to the Hermite That is wel seide, and thus shulde every wight Thanke his God and alle his wittis dresse To love and drede Hym with al his herte and myght, Seth Deeth to ascape may be no sikernesse. As men deserve God quit of rightwisnesse To riche and pore uppon every side. A bettir lessoun ther can no clerke expresse, Than til tomorwe is no man sure to abide.
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