_Cleophas._ Trewly from us ȝe xal not go, ȝe xal abyde with us here stylle; ȝour goodly dalyaunce plesyth us so, We may nevyr have of ȝow oure fylle. We pray ȝow, sere, with herty wylle, Alle nyght with us abyde and dwelle; More goodly langage to talkyn us tylle, And of ȝour good dalyaunce more ffor to telle. _Lucas._ ȝa, brothyr Cleophas, be myn assent, Lete us hym kepe with strenthe and myght; Sett on ȝowre hand with good entent, And pulle hym with us the wey welle ryght. The day is done sere, and now it is nyght; Why wole ȝe hens now from us go? ȝe xal abyde, as I ȝow plyght; ȝe xal not walke this nyght us ffro. _Cleophas._ This nyght fro us ȝe go not away, We xal ȝow kepe betwen us tweyne; To us therfore ȝe say not nay, But walke with us, the wey is pleyne. _Christus._ Sythyn ȝe kepe me with myght and mayn, With herty wylle I xal abyde. _Lucas._ Of ȝour abydyng we be ful fayn, No man more welkom in this werd wyde. _Cleophas._ Off oure mayster Cryst Jhesu ffor ȝe do speke so meche good, I love ȝow hertyly, trust me trew, He was bothe meke and mylde of mood. Of hym to speke is to me food; If ȝe had knowe hym, I dare wel say, And in what plyght with hym it stood, ȝe wold have thought on hym many a day. _Lucas._ Many a day, ȝa, ȝa, i-wys He was a man of holy levynge, Thow he had be the childe of God in blys, Bothe wyse and woundyrfulle was his werkynge. But aftere ȝour labour and ferre walkynge, Takyth this loff and etythe sum bred; And than wyl we have more talkynge Of Cryst oure maystyr, that is now ded. _Christus._ Bethe mery and glad, with hert fful fre, ffor of Cryst Jhesu, that was ȝour ffrende, ȝe xal have tydynges of game and gle Withinne a whyle, or ȝe hens wende. With myn hand this bred I blys, And breke it here, as ȝe do se; I ȝeve ȝow parte also of this, This bred to ete and blythe to be. _Hic subito discedat Christus ab oculis eorum._ A, mercy, God! what was oure happe? Was not oure hert with love brennynge, Whan Cryst oure mayster so nere oure lappe Dede sitt and speke suche suete talkynge? He is now quyk and man lyvenge, That fyrst was slayn and put in grave; Now may we chaunge alle oure mornynge, ffor oure Lord is resyn his servauntes to save! _Lucas._ Alas! for sorwe, what hap was this? Whan he dyd walke with us in way, He prevyd by Scripture, ryght wel i-wys, That he was resyn from undyr clay. We trustyd hym not, but evyr seyd nay; Alas, for shame! why seyd we so? He is resyn to lyve this day, Out of his grave oure Lord is go!