_Pilatus._ Now, jentyl seres, I pray ȝow here, Sum good cowncel me to lere. ffor sertes, seres, without dwere, We stounde in ryght grett dowte. _Cayphas._ Now trewly, sere, I ȝow telle, This matere is bothe ffers and ffelle, Combros it is therwith to melle, And evyl to be browth abowte. _Annas._ Syr Pylat, thou grett justyse, Thow thou be of wittys wyse, ȝit herke fful sadly with good devyse, What that thou xalt do. I counsel the, be my reed, This wundyrful tale pray hem to hede, And upon this ȝeve hem good mede, Bothe golde and sylver also. And, sere, I xalle telle ȝow why, In ȝoure erys prevyly, Betweyn us thre serteynly, Now herk, seres, in ȝour erys! _Hic faciant Pilatus, Cayphas, et Annas, privatim inter se, consilium; quo finito, dicat_, _Annas._ ffor mede dothe most in every qwest, And mede is mayster, bothe est and west, Now trewly, seres, I held this best, With mede men may bynde berys. _Cayphas._ Sekyr, sere, this counselle is good; Pray these knyghtes to chaunge ther mood; ȝeve then golde, ffeste, and ffood, And that may chaunge ther wytt. _Pylatt._ Seres, ȝoure good councel I xalle fulfylle: Now, jentyl knyhtes, come hedyr me tylle, I yray ȝow, seres, of ȝour good wylle, No ferther that ȝe fflytt. Jentyl knyhtes, I ȝow pray, A bettyr sawe that ȝe say; Sey ther he was cawth away With his dyscyplis be nyght. Sey he was with his dyscyplis ffett, I wolde ȝe worn in ȝour sadelys ssett, And have here gold in a purs knett, And to Rome rydyth ryght. _Quartus miles._ Now, Syr Pylatt, We gon oure gatt, We wylle not prate No lengere now. Now we have golde, No talys xul be tolde To whithtes on wolde, We make the a vow. _Pilatus._ Now, ȝe men of mythe, As ȝe han hyght, Evyn so forthe ryght, ȝoure wurdys not falle. And ȝe xul gon With me anon, Alle everychon Into myn halle. _Primus miles._ Now hens we go As lyth as ro; And ryght evyn so As we han seyd, We xul kepe counsel, Where so evyr we dwelle We xul no talys telle, — Be not dysmayd. XXXVI. THE THREE MARIES. _Hic venient ad sepulcrum Maria Magdalene, Maria Jacobi, et Maria Solomæ; et dicit Maria Magdalene_, Swete systeryn, I ȝow beseche, Heryght now my specyal speche; Go we with salvys ffor to leche Cryst that tholyd wounde. He hath us wonnyn owt of wreche; The ryght wey God wyl us teche ffor to seke my lorde, my leche, His blood hath me unbownde. vij. devyls in me were pyght: My love, my lord, my God Almyght, Awey he weryd tho ffyndys wight With his wyse wurde. He droff fro me the fendes lees, In myn swete sowle his chawmere I ches, In me belevyth the lorde of pes, I go to his burryenge boorde.