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 Alle myn aungellys in hefne, withowte cessacion, They crye that grace to man myght exorte.

Veritas. Lord, I am thi dowtere, Trewthe, Thou wilt se I be not lore, Thyn unkynde creatures to save were rewthe, The offens of man hath grevyd the sore. Whan Adam had synnyd, thou seydest yore, That he xulde deye and go to helle, And now to blysse hym to restore, Twey contraryes mow not togedyr dwelle.

Thy trewthe, Lord, xal leste withowtyn ende, I may in no wyse ffro the go, That wrecche that was to the so unkende, He may not have to meche wo. He dyspysyd the and plesyd thi ffo, Thou art his creatour and he is thi creature, Thou hast lovyd trewthe, it is seyd evyr mo, Therfore in peynes lete hym evyrmore endure.

Misericordia. O ffadyr of mercye and God of comforte, That counselle us in eche trybulacion, Lete ȝour dowtere Mercy to ȝow resorte, And on man that is myschevyd have compassyon. Hym grevyth fful gretly his transgressyon, Alle hefne and erthe crye ffor mercy, Me semyth ther xuld be non excepcion, Ther prayers ben offeryd so specyally.

Threwthe sseyth she hath evyr be than, I graunt it wel she hath be so, And thou seyst endlesly that mercy thou hast kept ffor man, Than mercyabyl lorde, kepe us bothe to,