ȝour myrthe is turnyd to carfulle syse,
ȝour welthe with synne awey is wast,
ffor ȝour ffalse dede of synful gyse,
This blysse I spere ffrom ȝow ryth fast.
Here in come ȝe no more;
Tyl a chylde of a mayd be born,
And upon the rode rent and torn,
To save alle that ȝe have forlorn,
ȝour welthe ffor to restore.
Eva. Alas! alas! and wele away,