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Joseph. Lord, what travayl to man is wrought! Rest in this werd behovyth hym non; Octavyan oure emperor sadly hath besought Oure trybutehym to bere, ffolk must forth ichon, It is cryed in every bourgh and cety be name; I that am a pore tymbre wryth, born of the blood of Davyd, The emperores comawndement I must holde with, And ellys I were to blame.

Now, my wyff Mary, what sey ȝe to this? For sekyr, nedys I must fforth wende Onto the cyté of Bedleem, ffer hens i-wys;— Thus to labore I must my body bende. Maria. Myn husbond and my spowse, with ȝow wyl I wende, A syght of that cyté ffayn wolde I se; If I myght of myn alye ony ther ffynde, It wold be grett joye onto me.

Joseph. My spowse, ȝe be with childe, I fere ȝow to kary, ffor me semyth it were werkys wylde; But ȝow to plese ryght ffayn wold I, ȝitt women benethe to greve whan thei be with childe. Now latt us fforth wende as ffast as we may, And almyghty God spede us in oure jurnay! Maria. A! my swete husbond, wolde ȝe telle to me, What tre is ȝon standynge upon ȝon hylle?