Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/50

 Wrythe on to my necke bon, With hardnesse of thin honde.

Adam. Wyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche, Leve woman, turne thi thought, I wyl not sle fflescly of my fflesche, ffor of my flesche thi fflesche was wrought. Oure hap was hard, oure wytt was nesche, To paradys whan we were brought, My wepyng xal be longe ffresche, Schort lykyng xal be longe bought. No more telle thou that tale, ffor yf I xulde sle my wyff, I sclow myself withowtyn knyff, In helle logge to lede my lyff, With woo in wepyng dale.

But lete us walke forthe into the londe, With ryth gret labour oure fode to fynde, With delvyng and dyggyng with myn hond, Oure blysse to bale and care to-pynde. And, wyff, to spynne now must thou ffonde, Oure nakyd bodyes in clothe to wynde, Tylle sum comforthe of Godys sonde, With grace releve oure careful mynde. Now come go we hens, wyff.

Eva. Alas! that ever we wrought this synne, Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne, ȝe must delve and I xal spynne, In care to ledyn oure lyff.