Also I beseke my sone I se not the fende,
What tyme outh of this word I schal passe hens;
His horible lok wold fere me so hende,
Ther is nothyng I dowte but his dredfull presens.
Angelus. What nedith it to fere you, empres so hende?
Syn be the fruth of youre body was convycte his vyolens,
That horible serpent dare not nyhyn youre kende,
And yowre blosme schal make hym recistens,
That he schal not pretende.
Desyre ye outh ellys now rythis?