Than I am now ryght in this morn,—
In joy I gynne to glyde.
Mors. Ow! I herde a page make preysyng of pride,
Alle prynces he passyth, he wenyth, of powsté;
He wenyth to be the wurthyest of alle this werde wyde,—
Kynge ovyr alle kynges that page wenyth to be.
He sent into Bedlem, to seke on every syde,
Cryst for to qwelle, yf thei myght hym se;
But of his wykkyd wyl lurdeyn ȝitt he lyede,
Goddys sone doth lyve,—ther is no Lord but he!