ȝett who hath grace, he nedyth kepyng sore,
Therfore I sey “God is with the,”
Whiche xal kepe ȝow endlesly thore,
So amonge alle women blyssyd are ȝe.
Maria. A! mercy God, this is a mervelyous herynge;
In the aungelys wordys I am trobelyd her,
I think how may be this gretynge,
Aungelys dayly to me doth aper.
But not in the lyknes of man that is my fer,
And also thus hyȝly to comendyd be,