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ffor who my hert is colde as clay;
  A! hoo xal comforte oure carefulnes?
Ther had nevyr woman more doolfulnes;
  A! systyr Magdalyn, what is ȝour reed?
What whith may helpe oure hevynes,
  Now that oure brother is gon and deed?

Magdalyn. Alas! dere systyr, I cannot telle;
  The best comforte that I can sey,
But sum man do us sle and qwelle,
  Lete us ly down by hym and dey.
Alas! why went he alone awey?
  If we had deyd with hym also,
Than had oure care alle turnyd to pley,
  Ther now alle joye is turnyd to woo.

Primus consolator. Be of good comforte and thank God of al,
  ffor dethe is dew to every man;
What tyme that deth on us xal ffal,
  Non erthely wyght the oure telle can.
Martha. We alle xul dye, that is sertan,
  But ȝit the blood of kynde nature,
When dethe the brothyr awey hath tan,
  Must nedys murne that sepulture.

Secundus consolator. Good ffrendys, I pray ȝow holde ȝour pes,
  Alle ȝour wepynge moy not amende itt;
Of ȝour sorwinge therfore now ses,
  And helpe he were buryed in a cley pitt.
Magdalyn. Alas! that wurde myn herte doth slytt,
  That he must now in cley be grave;
I wolde sum man my throte wulde kytt,
  That I with hym myght lyne in cave.