_Judas._ Lord! me thynkyth thou dost ryght ille, To lete this oynement so spylle, To selle it yt were more skylle, And bye mete to poer men. The box was worthe of good moné, iij.c. pens, fayr and fre, This myght a bowht mete plenté. To ffede oure power kene. _Jhesus._ Pore men xul abyde; Ageyn the woman thou spekyst wronge. And I passe forthe in a tyde, Off mercy is here mornyng songe. _Here Cryst restyth and etyth a lytyl, and seyth, syttyng to his disciplis, and Mary Mawdelyn_, _Jhesus._ Myn herte is ryght sory and no wondyr is, Thoo dethe I xal go and nevyr dyd trespas; But ȝitt most grevyth myn hert evyr of this, On of my bretheryn xal werke this manas. On of ȝow here syttynge my treson xal tras, On of ȝow is besy my dethe here to dyth, And ȝitt was I nevyr in no synful plas, Wherefore my dethe xuld so shamfully be pyght. _Petrus._ My dere Lord, I pray the the trewthe for to telle, Whiche of us ys he that treson xal do? Whatt traytor is he that his lord that wold selle? Expresse his name, Lord, that xal werke this woo. _Johannes._ If that ther be on that wolde selle so, Good mayster, telle us now opynly his name. What traytour is hym that from the that wolde go? And with ffals treson ffulfylle his grett shame? _Andreas._ It is ryght dredfull suche tresson to thynke, And wel more dredfful to werk that bad dede; ffor that ffals treson to helle he xal synke, In endles peynes grett myscheff to lede. _Jacobus major._ It is not I, Lord, ffor dowte I have drede, This synne to fulfylle cam nevyr in my mende. Iff that I solde the thy blood ffor to blede, In doyng that treson my sowle xulde I shende. _Matheus._ Alas! my dere Lord, what man is so wood, ffor gold or for sylvyr hymself so to spylle? He that the doth selle ffor gold and for other good, With his grett covetyse hymself he doth kylle. _Bartholomeus._ What man so evyr he be of so wyckyd wylle, Dere Lord, among us telle us his name alle owt; He that to hym tendyth this dede to fulffille, ffor his grett treson his sowle stondyth in dowt. _Philippus._ Golde, sylver, and tresoour sone dothe passe away, But withowtyn ende evyr dothe laste thi grace. A! Lord! who is that wylle chaffare the for monay? ffor he that sellyth his lord to grett is the trespace. _Jacobus minor._ That traytour that doth this orryble manace, Bothe body and sowle I holde he be lorn; Dampnyd to helle-pytt, fer from thi face, Amonge alle ffowle fyndys to be rent and torn.