My swete sone, thi mouth I kys.
Ysaac. Al redy, fadyr, evyn at ȝour wylle
I do ȝour byddyng, as reson is.
Abraham. Alas! dere sone, here is no grace,
But nedis ded now must thou be!
With this kerchere I kure thi face,
In the tyme that I sle the.
Thy lovely vesage wold I not se,
Not for alle this werdlys good:
With this swerd, that sore grevyht me,