Part 35 (1/2)

_Rybald._ Yee hens fast I red[510] thou go, And melle[511] the not with us.

_Belzabub._ Oure yates[512] I trow wille last, Thay ar so strong I weyn,[513]

Bot if oure barres brast, For the, thay shalle not twyn.[514]

_Jesus._ This stede[515] shalle stande no longer stokyn;[516]

Open up and let my pepille pas.

_Rybald._ Out, harro![517] oure baylle is brokyn,[518]

And brusten ar alle oure bandes of bras.

_Belzabub._ Harro! oure yates begyn to crak, In sonder, I trow, thay go, And h.e.l.le, I trow, wille all to-shak; Alas, what I am wo![519]

_Rybald._ Lymbo is lorn, alas!

Sir Sathanas, com up!

This wark is wars[520] than it was.

_Sathanas._ Yee, hangyd be thou on a cruke;[521]

Thefys, I bad ye shuld be bowne[522]

If he maide mastres[523] more To dyng[524] that dastard downe, Sett[525] hym bothe sad and sore.

_Belzabub._ ”So sett hym sore” that is sone saide.

Com thou thi self and serve hym so; We may not abyde his bytter bradye,[526]

He wold us mar and we were mo.[527]

_Sathanas._ Fy, fature![528] wherfore were ye flayd?[529]

Have ye no force to flyt hym fro?

Loke in haste my gere be grayd,[530]

My self shalle to that gadlyng go.[531]

How, thou belamy, abyde,[532]

Withe alle thi boste and beyr,[533]

And telle me in this tyde What mastres[523] thou makes here.

_Jesus._ I make no mastry bot for myne, I wille theym save, that shalle the sow, Thou has no powere theym to pyne,[534]

Bot in my pryson for thare prow[535]

Here have thay sojornyd,--not as thyne, Bot in thi wayrd,[536] thou wote as how.

_Sathanas._ Why, where has thou hene ay syn[537]

That never wold neghe[538] theym nere e'er now?

_Jesus._ Now is the tyme certan My Fader ordand herfor,[539]

That they shuld pas fro payn In blys to dwelle for ever more.

_Sathanas._ Thy fader knew I welle by syght, He was a wright his meett to wyn,[540]

Mary, me mynnys,[541] thi moder hight, The utmast ende of alle thy kyn:

Say who made the so mekille[542] of myght?