Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Minor Poems

XIII. Truth

FLEE fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal;For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;Savour no more than thee bihove shal;Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,In trust of hir that turneth as a bal:Gret reste stant in litel besinesse;And eek be war to sporne ageyn an al;Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede;And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal.Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse:Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal!Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al;Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede:And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.
Therfore, thou vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesseUnto the worlde; leve now to be thral;Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesseMade thee of noght, and in especialDraw unto him, and pray in generalFor thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede;And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.