Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/126

 Thu seyst veritas mea et misericordia mea cum ipso, Suffyr not thi sowlys than in sorwe to slepe, That helle hownde that hatyth the byddyth hym ho, Thi love man no lengere lete hym kepe.

Justicia. Mercy, me mervelyth what ȝow movyth, ȝe know wel I am ȝour syster Ryghtwysnes, God is ryghtfful and ryghtffulnes lovyth, Man offendyd hym that is endles, Therfore his endles punchement may nevyr sees; Also he forsoke his makere that made hym of clay, And the devyl to his mayster he ches, Xulde he be savyd? nay! nay! nay!

As wyse as is God he wolde a be, This was the abhomynabyl presumpcion, It is seyd, ȝe know wel this of me, That the ryghtwysnes of God hath no diffynicion. Therffore late this be oure conclusyon, He that sore synnyd ly stylle in sorwe, He may nevyr make a seyth be resone, Whoo myght thanne thens hym borwe.

Misericordia. Syster Ryghtwysnes, ȝe are to vengeabyl, Endles synne God endles may restore, Above alle hese werkys, God is mercyabyl, Thow he forsook God be synne, be feyth he forsook hym never the more. And thow he presumyd nevyr so sore, ȝe must consyder the frelnes of mankende, Lerne and ȝe lyst, this is Goddys lore, The mercy of God is withowtyn ende.

Pax. To spare ȝour speches, systeres, it syt, It is not onest in vertuys to ben dyscencion,