Ondo the dore, his wyl were wrought.
Wellecome hom, myn husbond dere,
How have ȝe ferd in fer countré?
Joseph. To gete oure levynge withowtyn dwere,
I have sore laboryd ffor the and me.
Maria. Husbond, ryght gracyously now come be ȝe,
It solacyth me sore sothly to se ȝow in syth.
Joseph. Me merveylyth, wyff, surely ȝour face I cannot se,
But as the sonne with his bemys qwhan he is most bryth.
Maria. Husbond, it is as it plesyth oure Lord, that grace of hym grew,