Belzabub. Harro! oure yates begyn to crak,
In sonder, I trow, thay go,
And helle, 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?