_Tertius consolator._ Mary Mawdelyn, be of good herte, And wel bethynke ȝow in ȝour mynde, Eche creature hens must depart, Ther is no man but hens must wende! Deth to no wyht can be a frende, Alle thinge to erthe he wyl downe cast; Whan that God wol alle thynge hath ende, Lengere than hym lyst nothynge may last. _Magdalyn._ I thanke ȝow, frendys, ffor ȝour good chere, Myn hed doth ake, as it xulde brest; I pray ȝow, therfore, while ȝe ben here, A lytil whyle that I may rest. _Quartus consolator nuncius._ That Lord that made bothe est and west, Graunt ȝow good grace suche rest to take, That onto hym xulde plese most best, As he this worlde of nought dyd make! _Martha._ A! gracyous Lord, had ȝe ben here, My brother Lazarus this tyme had lyvyd; But iiij. days gon upon a bere We dede hym berye whan he was ded. ȝitt now I knowe withowtyn drede, What thynge of God that thou do crave, Thou xalt spede of the hyȝ Godheede, What so thou aske thou xalt it have. _Jhesus._ Thy brothyr Lazarus aȝen xal ryse, A levynge man aȝen to be. _Martha._ I woot wel that at the grett last syse, He xal aryse and also we. _Jhesus._ Resurreccion thou mast me se, And hendeles lyff I am also; What man that deyth and levyth in me, ffrom deth to lyve he xal ageyn go. Eche man in me that feytheful is, And ledyth his lyff aftere my lore, Of hendeles lyff may he nevyr mys, Evere he xal leve and deye nevyr more. The body and sowle I xal restore To endeles joye, dost thou trowe this? _Martha._ I hope in the, O Cryst! ful sore, Thou art the Sone of God in blys! Thy ffadyr is God of lyff endeles, Thiself is Sone of lyff and gras; To sese these wordlys wrecchydnes, ffrom hefne to erth ethou toke the pas. _Jhesus._ Of hevynly myght ryght grett solas, To alle this world me xul sone se; Go, calle thi systyr into this plas, Byd Mary Mawdelyn come hedyr to me. _Martha._ At thi byddyng I xalle here calle, In hast we were here ȝow beforn. _Mawdelyn._ Alas! my mowthe is byttyr as galle, Grett sorwyn my herte on tweyn hath scorne; Now that my brothyr from syth is lorn, Ther may no myrthe my care releve. Alas, the tyme that I was borne! The swerde of sorwe myn hert doth cleve. _Primus consolator._ ffor his dere love that alle that wrought, Ses sumtyme of ȝour wepynge, And putt alle thynge out of thought, Into this care that ȝow doth brynge. _Secundus consolator._ ȝe do ȝourself ryght grett hyndrynge, And short ȝoure lyff or ȝe beware; ffor Goddys love, ses of ȝour sorwynge, And with good wysdam refreyn ȝour care.