_Mary._ Alas, the dole I dree![322] I droop, I go in dread. Why hang'st thou, son, so high? my woe begins to breed, All blemished is thy ble,[323] I see thy body bleed, In the world, my son, we were never so woe, as now in weed.[324] My food[325] that I have fed, In life--longing thee led! Full straight art thou bestead Among these foemen fell: Such sorrow for to see. My dearest child, on thee, Is more mourning to me Than any tongue may tell. Alas! thy holy head Has not whereon to held[326] Thy face with blood is red, Was fair as flower in field; How should I stand in stead![327] To see my bairn thus bleed, Beaten as blo[328] as lead. And has no limb to wield? Fastened both hands and feet, With nalys[329] full unmeet, His wounds all wringing wet. Alas, my child, for care! For all rent is thy hide, I see on either side Tears of blood down glide Over all thy body bare. Alas that ever I should bide, and see my feyr[330] thus fare! _John._ Alas, for dule, my lady dear! All for changèd is thy cheer, To see this prince without a peer, Thus lappéd all in woe; He was thy food, thy fairest foine,[331] Thy love, thy like,[332] thy lovesome son, That high on tree thus hangs alone With body black and blo,[333] alas! To me and many mo,[334] A good master he was. But, lady, since it is his will The prophecy to fulfil, That mankind in sin not spill,[335] For them to thole[336] the pain; And with his death ransom to make, As prophets before of him spake. I counsel thee, thy grief to slake, Thy weeping may not gain In sorrow; Our boot[337] he buys full bayne,[338] Us all from bale to borrow. _Mary._ Alas, thine eyes as crystal clear, That shone as sun in sight, That lovely were in lyere[339] Lost they have their light, And wax all fa'ed[340] in fear, All dim then are they dight; In pain thou hast no peer, That is withouten pight.[341] Sweet son, say me thy thought; What wonders hast thou wrought To be in pain thus brought Thy blessed blood to blend? Ah, son, think on my woe, Why will thou from me go? On earth is no man mo[342] That may my mirth amend. _John._ Comely lady, good and couth,[343] Fain would I comfort thee; Me mynnys[344] my master with mouth Told unto his menyee.[345] That he should suffer many a pain, And die upon a tree, And to the life rise up again, Upon the third day should it be Full right; For thee, my lady sweet, Stint awhile to greet,[346] Our bale then will be beat,[347] As he before has bight.[348]