_Tertius consolator._ Bothe heed and ffoot now he is wounde, In a schete bothe ffayr and clene, Lete us bere hym streyte to that grounde, Where that ȝe thynke his grave xal bene. _Martha._ We be ffulle lothe that pytt to sen; But stondynge it may no bettyr be, The coors take up ȝow thre betwen, With carefulle herte ȝow ffolwe xal we. _Hic portavit corpus ad sepelliendum._ _Magdaleyn._ Alas! comforte I se non othyr, But alle of sorwe, and care, and woo; We dulfulle women must hurry oure brothir, Alas! that deth me wyl not slo. If I to pitt with hym myght go, Therin evyrmore with hym to abyde, Than were my care alle went me fro, Ther now grett sorwe doth wounde me wyde. _Primus consolator._ This coors we burry here in this pytte, Allemyghty God the sowle mut have; And with this ston this grave we shytte, ffro ravenous bestes the body to save. _Magdalyn._ He is now brought into his cave, Myn hert ffor woo this syght doth kylle; Lete us sytt down here by the grave, Or we go hens wepe alle oure ffylle. _Martha._ Us for to wepe no man may lett, Beforn oure face to se this syght. Alas! qwhy doth deth us not fett, Us for to brynge to this same plyght? _Secundus consolator._ Arys, for shame, ȝe do not ryght, Streyth from this grave he xul go hens. Thus for to grugge ageyns Godys myght, Aȝens hyȝ God ȝe do offens. _Magdalen._ Syth I must nedys with ȝow hens gon, My brotheres grave lete me fyrst kys; Alas! no whith may helpe my mon, ffarewel, my brother! farewel, my blys! _Tertius consolator._ Hom to ȝour place we xal ȝow wysse, ffor Goddys love be of good chere; Indede ȝe do ryght sore amys, So sore to wepe, as ȝe do here. _Martha._ Lete us go hom than to oure place, We pray ȝow alle with us to abyde; Us to comforte with sum solace, Tyl that oure sorwe doth slake and sclyde. _Primus consolator._ ȝow for to comforte at every tyde, We xalle dwelle here bothe nyght and day, And God that made this werd so wyde, Be ȝowre comforte, that best may. _Hic quartus consolator et nuncius loquitur Jhesu dicens_, _Quartus consolator._ Heyl, holy prophete, Jhesu by name! Martha and Mawdelyn, tho systeryn too, Recommende hem to ȝour hyȝ fame, And bad me sey to ȝow thus, loo! How that Lazarus, qwhiche that ȝe lovyd so, With grett syknes is sore dyssesyd; To hym they prayd ȝow that ȝe wolde goo, If that ȝour hyȝnes therwith were plesyd. _Jhesus._ Dedly syknes Laȝarus hath non, But for to shewe Goddys grete glorye; ffor that syknes is ordeynyd alon, The sone of God to gloryfie. _Nuncius._ They be in dowte that he xal deye, Grett syknes hym sore doth holde; ffor vervent hete his blood dothe dreye, His colore chaungyth, as they me tolde.