Heyl! moder Mary, maydyn perpetualle! _Maria._ A! welcome, mayde John, wyth alle myn herte in specyalle, ffor joye of youre presence myn herte gynnyth sweme; Thynke ye not, John, how my child eternalle, When he hynge on cros sayd us this teme, Lo! here thy sone, woman; so bad he me you calle, And you me moder eche othir to queme; He betok you the governayl there of my body terestyalle, On mayde to another at convenyens wold seme; And now that gracyows lord hath sent me yow sone. _Johannes._ Now, good fayr lady, what is ther to done? Tellyth the cause why I am heder sent. _Maria._ Swete sone, John, so wylle I anone; Owre lord God sent to me an aungyl that glent, And sayde I schulde passe hens where thre were in one, Tho I askyd the aungel to have you present. _Johannes._ A! holy moder, schul ye from us gone? My brether of this tydyngis sore wyl repent, That ȝe schuld ben absent. Ever trybulacyon, Lord, meche thou us sendyst, Thou oure mayster and oure comfort from us ascendist. And now oure joye, thy moder, to take thou pretendist, Thanne alle oure comfort is from us detent. But what seyde then aungyl, moder, onto you more? _Maria._ He brouth me this palme from my sone thore; Qwyche I beseke, as the aungyl me bad, That aforn my bere by you it be bore, Saynge my dirige devouthly and sad; ffor, John, I have herde the Jewys meche of me spelle. _Johannes._ A! good Lady, what likyth it you to telle? _Maria._ Secretly they ordeyne in here conseytis felle, When my sowle is paste where Godis sete is, To brenne my body and schamly it quelle, ffor Jhesu was of me born that they slew with here fistis; And therfore I beseke you, John, both fleche and felle Helpe I be beryed, for yn yow my tryst is. _Johannes._ ffere yow not, Lady, for I schal wyth you duelle: Wolde God my brether were here now and wyst this. _Hic subito omnes apostoli congregentur ante portum mirantes_,