Everyman :
A. C. Cawley

Scene 2

God speketh.
I perceyue, here in my maieste,
How that all creatures be to me vnkynde,
Lyuynge without drede in worldly prosperyte.
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Of ghostly syght the people be so blynde,
Drowned in synne, they know me not for theyr God.
In worldely ryches is all theyr mynde;
They fere not my ryghtwysnes, the sharpe rod.
My lawe that I shewed, whan I for them dyed,
They forget clene / and shedynge of my blode rede. [signature A.ii]
I hanged bytwene two theues, it can not be denyed;
To gete them lyfe I suffred to be deed;
I heled theyr fete / with thornes hurt was my heed.
I coude do no more than I dyde, truely;
And nowe I se the people do clene for-sake me.
They vse the seuen deedly synnes dampnable,
As pryde, coueytyse, wrath, and lechery
Now in the worlde be made commendable;
And thus they leue of aungelles the heuenly company.
Euery man lyueth so after his owne pleasure,
And yet of theyr lyfe they be nothynge sure.
I se the more that I them forbere
The worse they be fro yere to yere.
All that lyueth appayreth faste;
Therefore I wyll, in all the haste,
Haue a rekenynge of euery mannes persone;
For, and I leue the people thus alone
In theyr lyfe and wycked tempestes,
Veryly they will become moche worse than beestes,
For now one wolde by enuy another vp ete;
Charyte they do all clene forgete.
I hoped well that euery man
In my glory sholde make his mansyon,
And therto I had them all electe;
But now I se, lyke traytours deiecte,
They thanke me not for the pleasure that I to them ment,
Nor yet for theyr beynge that I them haue lent.
I profered the people grete multytude of mercy,
And fewe there be that asketh it hertly.
They be so combred with worldly ryches
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That nedes on them I must do iustyce,
On euery man lyuynge without fere.
Where arte thou, Deth, thou myghty messengere?