Above me is no kynge on grownd nere on gerthe!
Merthis therfore make ȝe, and be ryght nothynge sadde;
Spare nether mete nor drynke, and spare for no dyrthe
Of wyne nor of brede.
ffor now am I a kynge alone,
So wurthy as I may ther be none,
Therfore knyghtes be mery echone,
ffor now my ffo is dede!
Primus Miles. Whan the boys sprawlyd at my sperys hende, By Sathanas, oure syre, it was a goodly syght! A good game it was the boy for to shende, That wolde a bene oure kynge and put ȝow from ȝour ryght. Secundus Miles. Now trewly, my lorde the kynge, we had ben unkende, And nevyr non of us able for to be a knyght; If that any of us to hem had ben a frende, And a savyd any lyff aȝen thi mekyl myght, — ffrom deth hem to flytt. Herodes Rex. Amonges alle that grett rowthte He is ded, I have no dowte, Therfore, menstrelle, rownd abowte Blowe up a mery fytt.
Hic dum buccinant mors interficiat Herodem et duos milites subito, et diabolus recipiat eos,
Diabolus. Alle oure! alle oure! this catel is myn!
I xalle hem brynge onto my celle!
I xal hem teche pleys fyn,
And shewe suche myrthe as is in helle!
It were more bettyr amonges swyne,
That evyr more stynkyn ther be to dwelle;
