Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/46

 Alas! oure makers byddyng is brokyn, ffor I have towchyd his owyn dere tre. Oure fflescly eyn byn al unlokyn, Nakyd for synne ouresylf we se, That sory appyl that we han sokyn, To dethe hathe brouth my spouse and me, Ryth grevous is oure synne. Of mekyl shame now do we knowe, Alas! that evyr this appyl was growe, To dredful deth now be we throwe, In peyne us evyr to pynne.

Deus. Adam, that with myn handys I made, Where art thou now? what hast thou wrought?

Adam. A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade, I here thi voys, but I se the nought.

Deus. Adam, why hast thou synnyd so sone, Thus hastyly to breke my bone, And I made the mayster, undyr mone, Trewly of every tre. O tre I kept for my owe, Lyff and deth therin I knowe, Thi synne fro lyf now the hath throwe, ffrom deth thou mayst not fle.

Adam. Lord I have wrought aȝens thi wylle, I sparyd nat mysylf to spylle, The woman that thou toke me tylle, Sche brougth me therto. It was here counselle and here reed, Sche bad me do the same deed, I walke as werme withowtyn wede, A wey is schrowde and sho.

Deus. Womman that arte this mannys wyffe, Why hast thou steryd ȝour bothers stryffe?