_Laȝarus._ Ageyn my syknes ther is non ese, But Jhesu Cryst, my maystyr dere, If that he wyst of my dyssese, Ryght sone I trust he wolde ben here. _Quartus consolator._ I xal go to hym withoutyn dwere, And of ȝour syknes telle hym serteyne; Loke that ȝe be of ryght good chere, Whylle that I go and com ageyn. _Martha._ Now, jentyl ffrend, telle hym ryght thus, He that he lovyth hath grett syknes, Hedyr to come and comforte us, Say that we prayd hym of his goodnes. _Magdalyn._ Recomende us onto his hyȝnes, And telle hym alle oure hertys wo; But he comforte oure hevynes, Oure werdly joy awey wyl go. _Quartus consolator et nuncius._ The trewthe fforsothe alle every dele, As ȝe have told, so xal I say; Go to ȝour broythyr and cheryse hym wele, ffor I walke fforthe streyte in my way. _Martha._ What chere, good brothyr? telle me I pray; What wele ȝe ete? what wele ȝe drynk? Loke what is plesynge to ȝour pay;— ȝe xal have what ȝe wole thynke. _Laȝarus._ My wynde is stoppyd, gon is my brethe,— And dethe is come to make myn ende; To God in hevyn my sowle I qwethe,— ffarwelle, systeryn, for hens I wende. _Hic Lazarus moritur, etc._ _Magdalyn._ Alas! ffor wo myn here I rende, Myn owyn dere brothyr lyth here now ded; Now have we lost a trusty ffrende,— The sybbest blood of oure kynreed! _Martha._ Alas! alas! and weleway! Now be we tweyn bothe brothyrles! ffor who my hert is colde as clay; A! hoo xal comforte oure carefulnes? Ther had nevyr woman more doolfulnes; A! systyr Magdalyn, what is ȝour reed? What whith may helpe oure hevynes, Now that oure brother is gon and deed? _Magdalyn._ Alas! dere systyr, I cannot telle; The best comforte that I can sey, But sum man do us sle and qwelle, Lete us ly down by hym and dey. Alas! why went he alone awey? If we had deyd with hym also, Than had oure care alle turnyd to pley, Ther now alle joye is turnyd to woo. _Primus consolator._ Be of good comforte and thank God of al, ffor dethe is dew to every man; What tyme that deth on us xal ffal, Non erthely wyght the oure telle can. _Martha._ We alle xul dye, that is sertan, But ȝit the blood of kynde nature, When dethe the brothyr awey hath tan, Must nedys murne that sepulture. _Secundus consolator._ Good ffrendys, I pray ȝow holde ȝour pes, Alle ȝour wepynge moy not amende itt; Of ȝour sorwinge therfore now ses, And helpe he were buryed in a cley pitt. _Magdalyn._ Alas! that wurde myn herte doth slytt, That he must now in cley be grave; I wolde sum man my throte wulde kytt, That I with hym myght lyne in cave.