ȝow fals I fynde.
Secundus miles. Be the dethe the devyl deyd,
We were of hym so sore atreyd,
That ffor ffer we us down leyd
Ryght evyn upon oure syde.
Whan we were leyd upon the grounde,
Stylle we lay as we had be bounde,
We durst not ryse for a thousand pounde,
Ne not for alle this worlde so wyde.
Pilatus. Now ffy upon ȝour grett bost!