A! weel away! weel away! fals hert, why wylt thou not brest,
Syn thi maystyr so cowardly thou hast forsake?
Alas! qwher xal I now on erthe rest,
Tyl he of his mercy to grace wole me take?
I have forsake my mayster and my lord Jhesu
Thre tymes, as he tolde me that I xuld do the same;
Wherfore I may not have sorwe anow,
I synful creature am so meche to blame.
Whan I herd the cok crowyn, he kest on me a loke,
As who seyth, "bethynke the what I seyd before?"
Alas, the tyme that I evyr hym forsoke!
And so wyl I thynkyn from hens evyrmore.
Cayphas. Massangere! Massangere! Massangere. Here, lord, here! Cayphas. Massanger, to Pylat in hast thou xalt gon, And sey hym we comawnde us in word and in dede; And prey hym that he be at the mot-halle anoon, ffor we han gret matere that he must nedes spede. In hast now go thi way, And loke thou tery nowth. Massanger. It xal be do, lord, be this day, I am as whyt as thought.
Here Pylat syttyth in his skaffald, and the massanger knelyth to hym, thus seyng,
Al heyl! sere Pylat, that semly is to se!
Prynce of al this Juré, and kepere of the lawe!
My lord busshop Cayphas comawndyd hym to the,
And prayd the to be at the mot-halle by the day dawe.
Pylat. Go thi way, praty masanger, and comawnde me also;
I xal be there in hast, and so thou mayst say:
