Alle this world, that is so rownd,
I xal it gyve to the!
Jhesus. Go a bak, thou fowle Sathanas! In holy Scrypture wretyn it is, Thi Lorde God to wurchipp in every plas, As for his thralle and thou servaunt his. Sathan. Out, out, harrow! alas! alas! I woundyr sore what is he this? I cannot brynge hym to no trespas, Nere be no synne to don amys, He byddyth me gon abakke! What that he is I kannot se, Whethyr God or man, what that he be I kannot telle in no degré: ffor sorwe I lete a crakke.
Hic venient angeli cantantes et ministrantes ei:—"Gloria tibi, Domine!" Dicens.
Jhesus. Now, alle mankende, exaumple take
By these grete werkys that thou dost se,
How that the devylle of helle so blake
In synne was besy to tempte me;
ffor alle hise maystryes that he dyd make,
He is overcom and now doth ffle;
Alle this I suffyr ffor mannys sake,
To teche the how thou xalt rewle the,
Whan the devylle dothe the assayle.
Loke thou concente nevyr to synne,
For no sleytys, ne for no gynne,
And than the victory xalt thou wynne,
The devyl xal lesyn alle his travayl.
To suffyr temptacion it is grett peyn,
If thou withstonde it thou wynnyst grett mede,
