I was nevyr lyghtere i-wys,
To walke nevyr here beforn;
ffor a mery tyme now is,
Whan God my lord is born.
Anna Prophetessa. Al heyl, Symeon! what tydynges with ȝow? Why make ȝe al this myrth now? Telle me whedyr ȝe fare. Symeon. Anne prophetes, and ȝe wyst whou, So xulde ȝe, I make avow, And alle maner men that are. ffor Goddys son, as I declare, Is born to bye mankende; Oure Savyour is come to sesyn oure care; Therfore have I grett merthe to wende. And that is the cawse I hast me Onto the temple hym to se; And therfor lett me not, good frende! Anna. Now blyssyd be God in Trinyté, Syn that tyme is come to be, And with ȝow wyl I wende. To se my Savyour ende, And wurcheppe hym also, With alle my wytt and my ful mende, As I am bound, now wyl I do.
Et tunc ibunt ambo ad templum et prophetissa,
Symeon. In the temple of God who undyrstod,
This day xal be offeryd with mylde mood,
Whiche that is kynge of alle;
That xal be skorgyd and shedde his blood,
And aftyr dyen on the rood,
Withowtyn cawse to calle.
