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 And I xal here abyde ȝour aȝen comynge, And on my sawtere-book I xal rede. Now blyssyd be oure Lord ffor this, Of hefne and erthe and alle that beryth lyff, I am most bound to ȝow, Lord, i-wys, ffor now I am bothe mayde and wyff.

Now, Lord God, dysspose me to prayour, That I may sey the holy psalmes of Davyth, Wheche book is clepyd the Sawtere, That I may preyse the, my God, therwith. Of the vertuys therof this is the pygth, It makyht sowles fayr, that doth it say, Angelys besteryd to help us therwith, It lytenyth therkenesse and puttyth develys away.

The song of Psalmus is Goddys dete, Synne is put awey therby; It lernyth a man vertuys ful to be, It feryth mannys herte gostly. Who that it usyth customably, It claryfieth the herte, and charyté makyth cowthe, He may not ffaylen of Goddys mercy, That hath the preysenge of God evyr in his mowthe.

O holy Psalmys! O holy book! Swetter to say than any ony! Thou lernyst hem, love Lord, that on the look, And makyst hym desyre thyngys celestly. With these halwyd psalmys, Lord, I pray the specyaly, ffor alle the creatures qwyke and dede, That thou wylt shewe to hem thi mercy, And to me specyaly that do it rede.

I have seyd sum of my sawtere, and here I am At this holy psalme in dede,