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 Scriba. On hym beleve many a score, In his prechynge he is so gay; Eche man hym ffolwygh ever more and more, Aȝens that he seyth no man seyth nay.

Phariseus. A ffals qwarel if we cowde feyne, That ypocrite to puttyn in blame; Alle his prechynge xulde sone disteyne, And than his wurchepp xuld turne to shame. With sum falshede to spyllyn his name Lett us assay, his lore to spylle; The pepyl with hym yff we cowde grame, Than xulde we sone have al oure wylle.

Accusator. Herke, sere pharysew, and sere scrybe, A ryght good sporte I kan ȝow telle, I undyrtake that ryght a good brybe We alle xul have to kepe councelle. A fayre ȝonge qwene here by doth dwelle, Bothe ffresche and gay upon to loke, And a talle man with her dothe melle,— The wey into hyr chawmere ryght evyn he toke.

Lett us thre now go streyte thedyr, The wey fful evyn I xalle ȝow lede; And we xul take them bothe togedyr, Whylle that thei do that synful dede. Scriba. Art thou sekyr that we xal spede? Shalle we hym fynde whan we cum there? Accusator. Be my trowthe I have no drede, The hare fro the fforme we xal arere.

Phariseus. We xal have game and this be trewe! Lete us thre werke by on assent, We wyl here brynge evyn beforn Jhesu, And of here lyff the truthe present;