My hert doth clynge and cleve as clay.
Ysaac. ȝitt werke Goddys wylle, fadyr, I ȝow pray,
And sle me here anoon forthe ryght,
And turne fro me ȝour face away,
Myne heed whan that ȝe xul of smyght.
Abraham. Alas! dere childe, I may not chese,—
must nedys my swete sone kylle!
My dere derlyng, now must me lese,
Myn owyn sybb blood now xal I spylle!
ȝitt this dede or I fulfylle,