Martha. He may nat leve, his colowre doth chaunge,
Come to his bed, ȝe xal hym se.
Magdalyn. Iff he longe leve, it wyl be straunge,
But as God wole, so mut it be;
Chere hym, gode frendys, ffor charyté,
Comforte of hym we kan non gete.
Alas! alas! what eylight me,
Myne herte for wo is wundyr grete.
Tertius consolator. Ah, heyl! syr Laȝarus, how do ȝe fare?
How do ȝe ffele ȝow in ȝour herte?