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 Maria. A! dere ffrende, weel woot I this, That he doth bye us to his blys; But ȝitt of myrth evyr more I mys,            Whan I se this syght! Johannes. Now, dere lady, therfore I ȝow pray, ffro this dolful dolour wende we oure way, ffor whan this syght ȝe se nought may,            ȝoure care may waxe more lyght. Maria. Now sythe I must parte hym fro, ȝit lete me kysse or that I go His blyssyd ffeyt that sufferyn wo,            Naylid on this tre. So cruelly with grett dyspyte, Thus shamfully was nevyr man dyghte, Therfore in peyn myn hert is pyghte,            Al joye departyth fro me! Hic quasi semimortua cadat prona in terram, et dicit.

Johannes. Now, blyssyd mayd, com forthe with me! No lengere this syght that ȝe se, I xal ȝow gyde in this countré, Where that it plesyth ȝow best. Maria. Now, jentyl John, my sonys derlyng! To Goddys temple thou me brynge, That I may prey God with sore wepynge, And mornynge that is prest!

Johannes. Alle ȝour desyre xal be wrought, With herty wylle I werke ȝour thought; Now, blyssyd mayde, taryeth nowth, In the temple that ȝe ware! ffor holy prayere may chaunge ȝour mood, And cawse ȝour chere to be more good;