Thi face is pale, withowtyn chere!
Of meche joy now xal I mysse!
Ther was nevyr modyr that sey this,
So her sone dyspoyled with so gret wo;
And my dere chylde nevyr dede amys,—
A, mercy! fadyr of hefne, it xulde be so!
Joseph. Mary, ȝour sone ȝe take to me;
Into his grave it xal be browth.
Maria. Joseph, blyssyd ever mot thou be,
For the good ded that ȝe han wrowth!