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So Jonas then he was aſham'd,
Becauſe he was not flyting free,
Of all his faults ſhe had him blam'd,
He left the wife and let her be.

Saint Thomas then, I counſel thee,
Go ſpeak unto yon wicked wife,
She ſhames us all, and as for me,
Her like I never heard in life.

Thomas, then ſaid, you make ſuch ſtrife,
When you are out, and meikle din,
If ye were here I'll lay my life,
No peace the faints will get within,
It is your trade ſtill to be flyting,
As one who, in a fever, raves,
No marvel though you wives be biting,
Your tongues were made of Aſpen leaves.

Thomas, quoth ſhe, let be your taunts,
You play the pick-thank I perceive,
Tho' you be brother'd 'mong the ſaints,
An unbelieving heart you have;
You brought the Lord unto the grave,
But would no more with him remain,
And were the laſt of all the lave,
That did believe he roſe again,
There might no doctrine do thee good,
Nor miracles make thee conſide,
Till thou beheld Chriſt's wounds and blood,
And put thy hand into his ſide.
Didſt thou not daily with him bide,
And ſee the wonders which he wrought?
But bleſt are they who do conſide,
And do believe yet ſaw him nought.