My chylde is medecyn ffor every sor;
Towche his clothis be my cowncelle,—
ȝowre hand ful sone he wyl restor.
Hic Salomee tangit fimbriam Christi, dicens,
Salomee. A! now blyssyd be this chylde evermore—
The sone of God forsothe he is!
Hath helyd myn hand, that was forlore
Thorwe ffals beleve and demynge amys.
In every place I xal telle this,
Of a clene mayde that God is born: