Alas! that evyr this appyl was growe,
To dredful deth now be we throwe,
In peyne us evyr to pynne.
Deus. Adam, that with myn handys I made,
Where art thou now? what hast thou wrought?
Adam. A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade,
I here thi voys, but I se the nought.
Deus. Adam, why hast thou synnyd so sone,
Thus hastyly to breke my bone,
And I made the mayster, undyr mone,