Lo! here thy sone, woman; so bad he me you calle,
And you me moder eche othir to queme;
He betok you the governayl there of my body terestyalle,
On mayde to another at convenyens wold seme;
And now that gracyows lord hath sent me yow sone.
Johannes. Now, good fayr lady, what is ther to done?
Tellyth the cause why I am heder sent.
Maria. Swete sone, John, so wylle I anone;
Owre lord God sent to me an aungyl that glent,
And sayde I schulde passe hens where thre were in one,