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 Sey he was with his dyscyplis ffett, I wolde ȝe worn in ȝour sadelys ssett, And have here gold in a purs knett, And to Rome rydyth ryght.

Quartus miles. Now, Syr Pylatt, We gon oure gatt, We wylle not prate No lengere now. Now we have golde, No talys xul be tolde To whithtes on wolde, We make the a vow.

Pilatus. Now, ȝe men of mythe, As ȝe han hyght, Evyn so forthe ryght, ȝoure wurdys not falle. And ȝe xul gon With me anon, Alle everychon Into myn halle.

Primus miles. Now hens we go As lyth as ro; And ryght evyn so           As we han seyd, We xul kepe counsel, Where so evyr we dwelle We xul no talys telle, — Be not dysmayd.