_Jesus._ Ye prynces of helle open youre yate, And let my folk furthe gone, A prynce of peasse shalle enter therat Wheder ye wille or none. _Rybald._ What art thou that spekys so? _Jesus._ A kyng of blys that hight Jesus. _Rybald._ Yee hens fast I red[510] thou go, And melle[511] the not with us. _Belzabub._ Oure yates[512] I trow wille last, Thay ar so strong I weyn,[513] Bot if oure barres brast, For the, thay shalle not twyn.[514] _Jesus._ This stede[515] shalle stande no longer stokyn;[516] Open up and let my pepille pas. _Rybald._ Out, harro![517] oure baylle is brokyn,[518] And brusten ar alle oure bandes of bras. _Belzabub._ Harro! oure yates begyn to crak, In sonder, I trow, thay go, And helle, I trow, wille all to-shak; Alas, what I am wo![519] _Rybald._ Lymbo is lorn, alas! Sir Sathanas, com up! This wark is wars[520] than it was. _Sathanas._ Yee, hangyd be thou on a cruke;[521] Thefys, I bad ye shuld be bowne[522] If he maide mastres[523] more To dyng[524] that dastard downe, Sett[525] hym bothe sad and sore. _Belzabub._ "So sett hym sore" that is sone saide. Com thou thi self and serve hym so; We may not abyde his bytter bradye,[526] He wold us mar and we were mo.[527] _Sathanas._ Fy, fature![528] wherfore were ye flayd?[529] Have ye no force to flyt hym fro? Loke in haste my gere be grayd,[530] My self shalle to that gadlyng go.[531] How, thou belamy, abyde,[532] Withe alle thi boste and beyr,[533] And telle me in this tyde What mastres[523] thou makes here. _Jesus._ I make no mastry bot for myne, I wille theym save, that shalle the sow, Thou has no powere theym to pyne,[534] Bot in my pryson for thare prow[535] Here have thay sojornyd,--not as thyne, Bot in thi wayrd,[536] thou wote as how. _Sathanas._ Why, where has thou hene ay syn[537] That never wold neghe[538] theym nere e'er now? _Jesus._ Now is the tyme certan My Fader ordand herfor,[539] That they shuld pas fro payn In blys to dwelle for ever more. _Sathanas._ Thy fader knew I welle by syght, He was a wright his meett to wyn,[540] Mary, me mynnys,[541] thi moder hight, The utmast ende of alle thy kyn: Say who made the so mekille[542] of myght? _Jesus._ Thou wykyd feynde lett be thi dy[n], My Fader wonnes[543] in heven on hight, In blys that never more shalle blyn:[544] I am his oonly son his forward[545] to fulfylle, Togeder wille we won, in sonder when we wylle. _Sathanas._ Goddes son! nay, then myght thou be glad For no catelle thurt the crave;[546] Bot thou has lyffed ay lyke a lad, In sorow, and as a sympille[547] knave. _Jesus._ That was for the hartly[548] luf I had Unto man's saulle, it for to save, And for to make thee masyd[549] and mad, And for that reson rufully to rafe.[550] My Godhede here I hyd In Mary, moder myne, Where it shalle never be kyd[551] To the, ne none of thyne.[552] _Sathanas._ How now? this wold I were told in towne, Thou says God is thi syre; I shalle the prove by good reson Thou moyttes[553] as man dos into myre.