With shame they ffled hens everychone;
But, gracyous prophete, lyst to my mone!
Of my sorwe take compassyon!
Now alle myn enmyes hens be gone,
Sey me sum wurde of consolacion.
Jhesus. ffor tho synnys that thou hast wrought,
Hath any man condempnyd the?
Mulier. Nay forsothe that hathe ther nought,
Butt in ȝour grace I putt me.
Jhesus. ffor me thou xalt nat condempnyd be;