The same and ever shall remain; His mercies last, and his good will, To bring me to his flock again; He will me help and me relieve, And will increase my faith also, Of weakly I can but believe, For from this place I’ll never go. But Peter said, how can that be, How durst thou look him in the face. Such horrid sinners like to thee, Can have no courage to get grace; Here none comes in but they that’s stout, And suffered have for the good cause; Like unto thee are keeped out, For thou hast broke all Moses’ laws. Peter, she said, I do appeal, From Moses, and from thee also. With him and you I’ll not prevail, But to my Saviour I will go; Indeed of old you were right stout; When you did cut off Malchus’ ear; But after that you went about; And a poor maid then did you fear. Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear, A comforter indeed you’re not; Let me alone, I do not fear, Take home the whistle of your groat: Was it your own, or Paul’s good sword, When that your courage was so keen, You were right stout upon my word, Then would you fain at fishing been; For at the crowing of the cock, You did deny your master thrice, For all your stoutness turned a block, Now flyte no more if ye be wise. Yet at the last the Lord arose, Environed with angels bright, And to the wife in haste he goes, Desired her soon pass out of sight. O Lord, quoth she, cause do me right, But not according to my sin; Have you not promised day and night, When sinners knock to let them in. He said thou wrests the scriptures wrong The night is come thou spent the day, In whoredom thou hast lived long, And to repent thou didst delay; Still my commandments thou abus’dst, And vice committedst busily, Since now my mercy thou refus’dst, Go down to hell eternally. O Lord, my soul doth testify, That I have spent my life in vain; Ah! make a wand’ring sheep of me, And bring me to thy flock again. Think’st thou there is no count to crave, Of all these gifts in thee was planted. I gave thee beauty ’bove the lave, A pregnant wit thou never wanted. Master, quoth she, it must be granted, My sins is great give me contrition: The forlorn son when he repented, Obtained his father full remission. I spared my judgments many times And spiritual pastors did thee send; But thou renewd’st thy former crimes, Aye more and more me to offend. My Lord, quoth she, I do amend, Lamenting for my former vice The poor thief at the latter For one word went to paradise. The thief heard never of me teaching, My heavenly precepts and my laws,