Maria. A, dere sone! these wurdys ben goode,
Thou hast wel comfortyd my mornyng moode
Blyssyd be thi precyous bloode,
That mankende thus doth save!
Jhesus. Now, dere modyr, my leve I take;
Joye in hert and myrthe ȝe make,
ffor dethe is deed and lyff dothe wake,
Now I am resyn fro my grave!
Maria. ffarewel, my sone! farewel, my childe!
ffarewel, my Lorde! my God so mylde!