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?
Jesus. Thou wykyd feynde lett be thi dy[n],
My Fader wonnes[543] in heven on hight,
In blys that never more shalle blyn:[544]
I am his oonly son his forward[545] to fulfylle,
Togeder wille we won, in sonder when we wylle.
Sathanas. Goddes son! nay, then myght thou be glad
For no catelle thurt the crave;[546]
Bot thou has lyffed ay lyke a lad,
In sorow, and as a sympille[547] knave.
Jesus. That was for the hartly[548] luf I had
Unto man's saulle, it for to save,
And for to make thee masyd[549] and mad,
And for that reson rufully to rafe.[550]
My Godhede here I hyd
In Mary, moder myne,
Where it shalle never be kyd[551]
To the, ne none of thyne.[552]
Sathanas. How now? this wold I were told in towne,
Thou says God is thi syre;
I shalle the prove by good reson
Thou moyttes[553] as man dos into myre.
To breke thi byddyng they were fulle bowne,[554]
And soon they wroght at my desyre,
From paradise thou putt thym downe,
In helle here to have thare hyre;[555]
And thou thi self, by day and nyght,
Taght[556] ever alle men emang,
Ever to do reson and right,
And here thou wyrkys[557] alle wrang.