_Jhesus._ It is wretyn in holy book, Thi Lorde God thou xalt not tempte; Alle thynge must obeye to Goddys look, Out of his myght is non exempt; Out of thi cursydnes and cruel crook, By Godys grace man xal be redempt:— Whan thou to helle, thi brennynge brook, To endles peyne xal evyr be dempt, Therin alwey to abyde. Thi Lorde God thou tempt no more, It is nott syttenge to thi lore, I bydde the sese anon therfore, And tempte God in no tyde. _Sathan._ Ow! in gloteny nor in veynglory it dothe ryght nott avayl Cryst for to tempt, it profyteth me ryght nought; I must now begynne to have a newe travayl,— In covetyse to tempt hym it comyth now in my thought, ffor if I went thus away and shrynkyd as a snayle, Lorn were the labore alle that I have wrought; Therfore in covetyse oure syre I xal asayle, And assay into that synne yf he may be brought, Anon forthe ryght. Syr, ȝitt onys I pray to the, To this hyȝ hyl com forthe with me, I xal the shewe many a ceté, And many a wurthy syght. _Tunc Jhesus transit cum diabolo super montem et diabolus dicit_, Into the northe loke fforthe evyn pleyn, The towre of Babylony ther mayst thou se; The ceté of Jerusalem stondyth ther ageyn, And evyn ffast therby stondyth Galylé. Nazareth, Naverne, and the kyngdom of Spayn, ȝabulon, and Neptalym, that is a ryche countré, Both ȝebee and Salmana, thou mayst se serteyn, Itayl and Archage that wurthy remys be, Bothe Jannense and Jurye. Rome doth stonde before the ryght, The temple of Salamon as sylver bryght, And here mayst thou se opynly with syght Bothe ffraunce and Normandye. Turne the now on this syde and se here Lumbardye, Of spycery ther growyth many an c. balys; Archas and Aragon, and grett Almonye, Parys and Portyngale, and the towne of Galys: Pownteys and Poperynge, and also Pycardye, Erlonde, Scottlonde, and the londe of Walys. Grete pylis and castellys thou mayst se with eye, ȝa, and alle the wyd werde without mo talys, Alle this longygh to me. If thou wylt knele down to the grownde, And wurchepp me now in this stownde, Alle this world, that is so rownd, I xal it gyve to the! _Jhesus._ Go a bak, thou fowle Sathanas! In holy Scrypture wretyn it is, Thi Lorde God to wurchipp in every plas, As for his thralle and thou servaunt his. _Sathan._ Out, out, harrow! alas! alas! I woundyr sore what is he this? I cannot brynge hym to no trespas, Nere be no synne to don amys, He byddyth me gon abakke! What that he is I kannot se, Whethyr God or man, what that he be I kannot telle in no degré: ffor sorwe I lete a crakke. _Hic venient angeli cantantes et ministrantes ei:—“Gloria tibi, Domine!” Dicens._