Tho I askyd the aungel to have you present.
Johannes. A! holy moder, schul ye from us gone?
My brether of this tydyngis sore wyl repent,
That ȝe schuld ben absent.
Ever trybulacyon, Lord, meche thou us sendyst,
Thou oure mayster and oure comfort from us ascendist.
And now oure joye, thy moder, to take thou pretendist,
Thanne alle oure comfort is from us detent.
But what seyde then aungyl, moder, onto you more?
Maria. He brouth me this palme from my sone thore;