He toke hys doghtyr arme forlorn And byryed hyt on þe morn; Þe nexte day þe arme of Aue He fonde hyt lyggyng aboue þe graue. He byryed <hyt> on anouþer day, 140 And eft aboue þe graue hyt lay. Þe þrydde tyme he byryed hyt, And eft was hyt kast oute of þe pyt. Þe prest wulde byrye hyt no more, He dredde þe veniaunce ferly sore; 145 Ynto þe cherche he bare þe arme, For drede and doute of more harme, He ordeyned hyt for to be Þat euery man myȝt wyth ye hyt se. Þese men þat ȝede so karolland, 150 Alle þat ȝere, hand yn hand, Þey neuer oute of þat stede ȝede, Ne none myȝt hem þenne lede. Þere þe cursyng fyrst bygan, Yn þat place aboute þey ran, 155 Þat neuer ne felte þey no werynes As many †bodyes for goyng dos†, Ne mete ete, ne drank drynke, Ne slepte onely alepy wynke. Nyȝt ne day þey wyst of none, 160 Whan hyt was come, whan hyt was gone; Frost ne snogh, hayle ne reyne, Of colde ne hete, felte þey no peyne; Heere ne nayles neuer grewe, Ne solowed cloþes, ne turned hewe; 165 Þundyr ne lyȝtnyng dyd hem no dere, Goddys mercy ded hyt fro hem were;— But sungge þat songge þat þe wo wroȝt: 'Why stonde we? why go we noȝt?' What man shuld þyr be yn þys lyue 170 Þat ne wulde hyt see and þedyr dryue? Þe Emperoure Henry come fro Rome For to see þys hard dome. Whan he hem say, he wepte sore For þe myschefe þat he sagh þore. 175 He ded come wryȝtes for to make Coueryng ouer hem, for tempest sake. But þat þey wroght hyt was yn veyn, For hyt come to no certeyn, For þat þey sette on oo day 180 On þe touþer downe hyt lay. Ones, twyys, þryys, þus þey wroȝt, And alle here makyng was for noȝt. Myght no coueryng hyle hem fro colde Tyl tyme of mercy þat Cryst hyt wolde. 185 Tyme of grace fyl þurgh Hys myȝt At þe tweluemonth ende, on þe ȝole nyȝt. Þe same oure þat þe prest hem banned, Þe same oure atwynne þey †woned†; Þat houre þat he cursed hem ynne, 190 Þe same oure þey ȝede atwynne, And as yn twynkelyng of an ye Ynto þe cherche gun þey flye, And on þe pauement þey fyl alle downe As þey had be dede, or fal yn a swone. 195 Þre days styl þey lay echone, Þat none steryd oþer flesshe or bone, And at þe þre days ende To lyfe God graunted hem to wende. Þey sette hem vpp and spak apert 200 To þe parysshe prest, syre Robert: 'Þou art ensample and enchesun Of oure long confusyun; Þou maker art of oure trauayle,