Joachym. I am nott wurthy, Lord, to loke up to hefne! My synful steppys anvempnyd the grounde; I loth folest that levyth thou, Lord, hyest in thi setys sefne, What art thou, Lord? what am I wrecche werse than an hownde? Thou hast sent me shame whiche myn hert doth wounde; I thank the more herefore than for alle my prosperité: This is a tokyn thou lovest me,—now to the I am bounde; Thou seyst thou art with hem that in tribulacion be. And ho so have the, he nedyth not care thanne; My sorwe is feryng I have do sum offens Punchyth me, Lorde, and spare my blyssyd wyff Anne, That syttyth and sorwyth ful sore of myn absens! Ther is not may profyte but prayour to ȝour presens; With prayores prostrat byfore thi person I wepe; Have mende on oure avow, for ȝour meche magnyficens, And my lovyngest wyff Anne, Lord, for thi mercy kepe! Anna. A! mercy, Lord! mercy! mercy! mercy! We are synfolest; it shewyth that ȝe send us alle this sorwe: Why do ȝe thus to myn husbond, Lord? why, why, why? For my barynes he may amend this thiself and thou lyst to morwe, And it plese so thi mercy, the, my Lord, I take to borwe, I xal kepe myn avow qwyl I leve and leste, I fere me I have offendyd the; myn hert is ful of sorwe: Most mekely I pray thi pety, that this bale thou wyl breste.
Here the aungel descendith the hefne syngyng,
"Exultet cœlum laudibus! Resultet terra gaudiis! Archangelorum gloria Sacra canunt solemnia."
Joachym. Qwhat art thou, in Goddys name, that makyst me adrad?
It is as lyth abowt me as al the werd were fere.
