[Sidenote: The maiden tells her father to suffer patiently. Though he may dance as any doe, yet he must abide God’s doom.] “Thow demeȝ noȝt bot doel dystresse,” Þenne sayde þat wyȝt “why dotȝ þ{o}u so? For dyne of doel, of lureȝ lesse, Ofte mony mon for-gos þe mo; 340 Þe oȝte better þy seluen blesse, & loue ay god &[13] wele & wo, For anger gayneȝ þe not a cresse. Who nedeȝ schal þole be not so þro; 344 For þoȝ þ{o}u dau{n}ce as any do Brau{n}dysch & bray þy braþeȝ breme, When þ{o}u no fyrre may, to ne fro, Þ{o}u moste abyde þat he schal deme. 348 [Sidenote 13: _in_ or _an_ (?).] [Sidenote: He must cease to strive. All lies in God’s power to make men joyful or sad.] Deme dryȝtyn, euer hy{m} adyte, Of þe way a fote ne wyl he wryþe, Þy mendeȝ mou{n}teȝ not a myte, Þaȝ þ{o}u for sorȝe be neu{er} blyþe; 352 Sty{n}st of þy strot & fyne to flyte, & sech hys blyþe ful swefte[14] & swyþe, Þy prayer may hys pyte byte, Þat mercy schal hyr crafteȝ kyþe; 356 Hys comforte may þy lango{ur} lyþe, & þy lureȝ of lyȝtly leme, For marre oþ{er} madde, morne & myþe, Al lys i{n} hym to dyȝt & deme.” 360 [Sidenote 14: MS. _sweste_.] [Headnote: THE BEREAVED PARENT ASKS HIS CHILD’S PITY.] VII. [Sidenote: [Fol. 44a.]] [Sidenote: The father beseeches the pearl to have pity upon him.] Thenne demed I to þat damyselle, Ne worþe no wrath þe vnto my lorde, If rapely raue[15] spornande i{n} spelle. My herte watȝ al w{i}t{h} mysse remorde, 364 As wallande water gotȝ out of welle; I do me ay i{n} hys myserecorde. Rebuke me neu{er} w{i}t{h} wordeȝ felle, Þaȝ I forloyne my dere endorde, 368 Bot lyþeȝ me kyndely yo{ur} cou{m}forde, Pytosly þenkande vpon þysse; Of care & me ȝe made acorde, Þat er watȝ grou{n}de of alle my blysse; 372 [Sidenote 15: _rane_ (?).] [Sidenote: He says that she has been both his bale and bliss. And when he lost her, he knew not what had become of her.] My blysse, my bale ȝe han ben boþe, Bot much þe bygger ȝet watȝ my mon, Fro þ{o}u watȝ wroken fro vch a woþe. I wyste neu{er} quere my perle watȝ gon; 376 Now I hit se, now leþeȝ my loþe, & quen we departed we wern at on, God forbede we be now wroþe, We meten so selden by stok oþ{er} ston; 380 Þaȝ cortaysly ȝe carp con, I am bot mol & marereȝ mysse, Bot crystes mersy & mary & Ion, Þise arn þe grou{n}de of alle my blysse. 384