Mery-reporte. Now, good my lorde god, our lady be wyth ye! 175
Frendes, a fellyshyppe,[113] let me go by ye!
Thynke ye I may stande thrustyng amonge you there?
Nay, by god, I muste thruste aboute other gere!
Mery-reporte goeth out.
At thende[114] of this staf[115] the god hath a song played in his trone or Mery-reporte come in.
Jupiter. Now, syns we have thus farre set forth our purpose,
A whyle we woll wythdraw our godly presens, 180
To embold all such more playnely to dysclose,
As here wyll attende, in our foresayd pretens.