_Quartus miles._ I holde it best, Lete us nevyr rest, But go we prest That it were done. Alle heyl, Pilatt In thin astat! He is resyn up latt, That thou gast dome. _Pilat._ What! what! what! what! Out upon the, why seyst thou that? ffy upon the, harlat, How darst thou so say? Thou dost myn herte ryght grett greff! Thou lyest upon hym, fals theff; How xulde he rysyn ageyn to lyff, That lay deed in clay? _Primus miles._ ȝa, thow thou be nevyr so wrothe, And of these tydandys nevyr so lothe, ȝitt goodly on ground on lyve he gothe, Qwycke and levynge man. Yff thou haddyst a ben ther we ware, In hert thou xuldyst han had gret care, And of blysse a ben ryght bare, Of colore bothe pale and whan. _Pilatus._ Or ȝe come there, ȝe dede alle swere, To fyght in fere, And bete and bynde. Alle this was trayn, ȝour wurdes wore vayn, This is sertayn, ȝow fals I fynde. _Secundus miles._ Be the dethe the devyl deyd, We were of hym so sore atreyd, That ffor ffer we us down leyd Ryght evyn upon oure syde. Whan we were leyd upon the grounde, Stylle we lay as we had be bounde, We durst not ryse for a thousand pounde, Ne not for alle this worlde so wyde. _Pilatus._ Now ffy upon ȝour grett bost! Alle ȝour wurchep is now lost; In felde, in town, and in every cost, Men may ȝow dyspravyn. Now alle ȝour wurchep it is lorn, And every man may ȝow we scorn, And bydde ȝow go syttyn in the corn, And chare awey the ravyn. _Tertius miles._ ȝa, it was hyȝ tyme to leyn oure bost, ffor whan the body toke aȝen the gost, He wold a frayd many an ost, Kynge, knyght, and knave. ȝa, whan he dede ryse out of his lake, Than was ther suche an erthe-quake, That alle the worlde it gan to shake, That made us ffor to rave. _Quartus miles._ ȝa, ȝa, herke, ffelawys, what I xal say; Late us not ses be nyght nor day, But telle the trewthe, ryght as it lay, In countré where we goo. And than I dare ley myn heed, That thei that Crystes lawys leed, They wyl nevyr ses tyl they be deed, His dethe that brought hym too. _Primus miles._ Be Belyalle, this was now wele ment; To this cowncelle lete us consent, Lett us go tellyn with on assent, He is resyn up this day. _Secundus miles._ I grawnt therto, and that forthe right, That he is resyn by his owyn myght, ffor ther cam non, be day nor nyght, To helpe hym owte of clay. _Pilatus._ Now, jentyl seres, I yray ȝow alle Abyde stylle a lytyl thralle, Whylle that I myn cowncell calle, And here of ther councelle. _Primus miles._ Syr, att ȝour prayour we wyl abyde Here in this place a lytel tyde, But tary not to longe, ffor we must ryde, — We may not longe dwelle.