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 The sowle goth to helle gatys and seyth, "Attollite portas, principes, vestras, et elevamini, portæ eternales, et introibit Rex Gloriæ."

Ondothe ȝoure ȝatys of sorwatorie! On mannys sowle I have memorie, Here comyth now the kynge of glorye, These gates for to breke! ȝe develys that am here withinne, Helle gatys ȝe xal unpynne, I xal delyvere mannys kynne, — ffrom wo I wole hem wreke!

Belyalle. Alas! alas! out and harrow! Onto thi byddynge must we bow, That thou art God now do we know, Of the had we grett dowte. Aȝens the may no thynge stonde, Alle thynge obeyth to thyn honde, Bothe hevyn and helle, watyr and londe, — Alle thynge must to the lowte.

Anima Cristi. Aȝens me it were but wast To holdyn or to stondyn fast; Helle logge may not last Aȝens the kynge of glorye. Thi derke dore down I throwe, My fayr ffrendys now wele I knowe, I xal hem brynge reknyd be rowe Out of here purcatorye!