Loke that ȝe be of ryght good chere,
Whylle that I go and com ageyn.
Martha. Now, jentyl ffrend, telle hym ryght thus, He that he lovyth hath grett syknes, Hedyr to come and comforte us, Say that we prayd hym of his goodnes. Magdalyn. Recomende us onto his hyȝnes, And telle hym alle oure hertys wo; But he comforte oure hevynes, Oure werdly joy awey wyl go. Quartus consolator et nuncius. The trewthe fforsothe alle every dele, As ȝe have told, so xal I say; Go to ȝour broythyr and cheryse hym wele, ffor I walke fforthe streyte in my way. Martha. What chere, good brothyr? telle me I pray; What wele ȝe ete? what wele ȝe drynk? Loke what is plesynge to ȝour pay;— ȝe xal have what ȝe wole thynke. Laȝarus. My wynde is stoppyd, gon is my brethe,— And dethe is come to make myn ende; To God in hevyn my sowle I qwethe,— ffarwelle, systeryn, for hens I wende.
Hic Lazarus moritur, etc.
Magdalyn. Alas! ffor wo myn here I rende,
Myn owyn dere brothyr lyth here now ded;
Now have we lost a trusty ffrende,—
The sybbest blood of oure kynreed!
Martha. Alas! alas! and weleway!
Now be we tweyn bothe brothyrles!
