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 Serpens. Heyl ffayr wyff and comely dame! This ffrute to ete I the cownselle, Take this appyl and ete this ssame, This ffrute is best as I the telle.

Eva. That appyl to ete I were to blame, ffrom joy oure lorde wolde us expelle, We xuld dye and be put out with schame, In joye of paradyse nevyr more to duelle. God hymself thus sayde, What day of that frute we ete, With these wurdys God dyd us threte, That we xuld dye our lyff to lete, Therffore I am affrayde.

Serpens. Of this appyl yf ȝe wyl byte, Evyn as God is, so xal ȝe be, Wys of connyng as I ȝow plyte, Lyke onto God in al degré. Sunne and mone and sterrys bryth, ffysche and foule, bothe sond and se, At ȝour byddyng bothe day and nyth, Alle thynge xal be in ȝowre powsté; ȝe xal be Goddys pere. Take this appyl in thin hond, And to byte therof thou ffond, Take another to thin husbond, Thereof have thou no dwere.

Eva. So wys as God is in his gret mayn, And ffelaw in kunnyng ffayn wold I be.

Serpens. Ete this appyl, and in certeyn That I am trewe, sone xalt thou se.

Eva. To myn husbond with herte fful fayne, This appyl I bere, as thou byddyst me,