16. _Iesus [Without]._ _Principes, portas tollite_, Vndo youre ȝatis, ȝe princis of pryde, _Et introibit rex glorie_, Þe kyng of blisse comes in þis tyde. [_Enters the gates of Hell._ _Sattan._ Owte! harrowe <what harlot> is hee 185 Þat sais his kyngdome schall be cryed? _Dauid [in Limbo]._ Þat may þou in my Sawter see For þat poynte _I_ prophicie<d>. I saide þat he schuld breke Youre barres and bandis by name, 190 And on youre werkis take wreke; Nowe schalle ȝe see þe same. 17. _Iesus._ Þis steede schall stonde no lenger stoken; Opynne vppe, and latte my pepul passe! _Diabolus._ Owte! beholdes, oure baill is brokynne, 195 And brosten are alle oure bandis of bras. Telle Lucifer alle is vnlokynne. _Belsabub._ What þanne, is Lymbus lorne? allas! Garre Satan helpe þat we wer wroken; Þis werke is werse þanne euere it was. 200 _Sattan._ I badde ȝe schulde be boune If he made maistries more; Do dynge þat dastard doune, And sette hym sadde and sore. 18. _Belsabub._ Ȝa, sette hym sore, þat is sone saide, 205 But come þiselffe and serue hym soo; We may not bide his bittir braide, He wille vs marre and we wer moo. _Sattan._ What! faitours, wherfore are ȝe ferde? Haue ȝe no force to flitte hym froo? 210 Belyue loke þat my gere be grathed, Miselffe schall to þat gedlyng goo. [_To Iesus._] Howe! belamy, abide, With al thy booste and bere, And telle to me þis tyde, 215 What maistries makes þou here? 19. _Iesus._ I make no maistries but for myne, Þame wolle I saue, I telle þe nowe; Þou hadde no poure þame to pyne, But as my prisoune for þer prowe 220 Here haue þei soiorned, noght as thyne, But in thy warde, þou wote wele howe. _Sattan._ And what deuel haste þou done ay syne, Þat neuer wolde negh þame nere, or nowe? _Iesus._ Nowe is þe tyme certayne 225 Mi Fadir ordand before Þat they schulde passe fro payne, And wonne in mirthe euer more. 20. _Sattan._ Thy fadir knewe I wele be sight, He was a write his mette to wynne, 230 And Marie me menys þi modir hight, Þe vttiremeste ende of all þi kynne. Who made þe be so mekill of myght? _Iesus._ Þou wikid feende, latte be thy dynne! Mi Fadir wonnys in heuen on hight, 235 With blisse þat schall neuere blynne. I am His awne sone, His forward to fulfille; And same ay schall we wonne, And sundir whan we wolle. 240