This fayr whyte ȝarde is offryng myn,
I trost in God of sum socoure.
Com on, Joseph, with offrynge thin,
And brynge up thin, as we have oure,
Thou taryst ryth longe behynde certeyn;
Why comyst not forth to Goddys toure?
Com on, man, for shame.
Joseph. Com ȝa, ȝa, God help, fulle fayn I wolde, But I am so agyd and so olde, That bothe myn leggys gyn to folde, I am ny almost lame. Episcopus. A! mercy Lord, I kan no sygne aspy, It is best we go ageyn to prayr. Vox. He brought not up his rodde ȝet trewly, To whom the mayd howyth to be maryed her. Episcopus. Whath, Joseph, why stande ȝe there byhynde? I-wys, sere, ȝe be to blame. Joseph. Sere, I kannot my rodde ffynde; To come ther in trowthe me thynkyht shame.
Episcopus comyth, thens Joseph,
Sere, he may evyl go that is ner lame;
In sothe I com as fast as I may.
Episcopus. Offyr up ȝour rodde, sere, in Goddys name!
Why do ȝe not as men ȝow pray?
Joseph. Now in the wurchep of God of hevyn,
I offyr this ȝerde as lely whyte,
Prayng that Lord of gracyous stewyn,
With hert, with wytt, with mayn, with myght.
And as he made the sterres seven,
This sympyl offrynge that is so lyght,
To his wurchep he weldyghe evyn,
ffor to his wurchep this ȝerd is dyghte.
Lord God, I the pray,
To my herte thou take good hede,
And nothynge to my synful dede,
