XXXVII. CHRIST APPEARING TO MARY.
Maria Magdalene goth to the grave, and wepyth, and seyth,
ffor hertyly sorwe myn herte dothe breke,
With wepynge terys I wasche my face;
Alas! ffor sorwe I may not speke,
My Lorde is gon that hereinne wase:
Myn owyn dere Lorde and kynge of gras,
That vij. develys ffro me dyd take,
I kan nat se hym, alas! alas!
He is stolyn awey owt of this lake.
Aungelus. Woman, that stondyst here alone? Why dost thou wepe, and morne, and wepe so sore? What cawse hast thou to make suche mone? Why makyst thou suche sorwe, and wherefore? Maria Magdalene. I have gret cawse to wepe evyrmore; My Lord is take out of his grave, Stolyn awey and fro me lore, I kannot wete where hym to have.
Hic parum deambulet a sepulcro, dicens,
Alas! alas! what xal I do?
My Lord awey is fro me take;
A, woful wrecche! whedyr xal I go?
My joye is gon owth of this lake.
