Synne that we noon done.
Deus. Ow, what menyht this myslevyng man,
Whiche myn hand made and byldyd in blysse?
Synne so sore grevyht me ȝa in certayn,
I wol be vengyd of this grett mysse.
Myn aungel dere, thou xalt gan
To Noe that my servaunt is,
A shypp to make on hond to tan
Thou byd hym swythe ffor hym and his,
ffrom drynchyng hem to save,