My swete childe, com, kysse now me.
Ysaac. At ȝoure byddynge ȝour mouthe I kys,
With lowly hert I ȝow pray,
ȝoure fadyrly love lete me nevyr mysse,
But blysse me, ȝour chylde, bothe nyght and day.
Abraham. Almyghty God, that best may,
His dere blyssyng he graunt the,
And my blyssyng thou have alle way,
In what place that evyr thou be.
Now, Ysaac, my sone so suete,