Whan that I thynke of his absens,
That ȝe ȝourself in herte lovyd so.
Primus consolator. Whan we have mynd of his sore dethe, He was to us so gentyl and good, That mend of hym oure hertes sleth, The losse of hym doth marre oure mood. Secundus consolator. Be bettyr neybore nevyr man stood, To every man he was ryght hende; Us he dede refresche with drynk and food, Now he is gon, gon is oure frende! Jhesus. ȝowre grett wepynge doth me constreyne ffor my good ffrend to wepe also; I cannot me for wo restreyn, But I must wepe lyke as ȝe do.
Hic Jhesus fingit se lacrimari.
Tertius consolator. Beholde this prophete, how he doth wepe lo!
He lovyd Lazarus ryght woundyrly sore,
He wolde not ellys for hym thus wepe so,
But if that his love on hym were the more.
Nuncius. A straw for thi tale, what nedyth hym to wepe?
A man born blynde dyde he nat ȝeve syght?
Myght he not thanne his frende on lyve kepe,
Be the vertu of that same hyȝ myght?
Jhesus. Where is he put? telle me anon ryght;
Brynge me the weye streyth to his grave.
Martha. Lord! at ȝour wylle we xal brynge ȝow tyght,
Evyn to that place ther he doth lyve in cave.
Magdalyn. Whan that we had the massangere sent,
Or he had fullyche half a myle gon,
