My semely spowse and good husbond, Lystenyth to me, sere, I ȝow pray, Take this ffayr appyl alle in ȝour hond, Therof a mursel byte and asay. To ete this appyl, loke that ȝe fonde, Goddys ffelaw to be alway, Alle his wysdam to undyrstonde, And Goddys pere to be ffor ay, Alle thyng for to make,— Bothe ffysche and foule, se and sond, Byrd and best, watyr and lond; This appyl thou take out of myn hond, A bete therof thou take. _Adam._ I dare not towche thin hand ffor dred Of oure lord God omnypotent, If I xuld werke after thi reed, Of God oure makere I xuld be shent. If that we do this synful dede, We xal be ded by Goddys jugement. Out of thin hand with hasty spede, Cast out that appyl anon present, ffor fer of Goddys threte. _Eva._ Of this appyl yf thou wylt byte, Goddys pere thou xalt be pyht, So wys of kunnyng, I the plyht, This frute yf thou wylt ete. _Adam._ If we it ete oureself we kylle, As God us told we xuld be ded; To ete that frute and my lyf to spylle, I dar not do aftyr thi reed. _Eva._ A ffayr aungelle thus seyd me tylle, “To ete that appyl take nevyr no dred, So kunnyng as God in hevyn hille, Thou xalt sone be withinne a sted, Therfore this frute thou ete.” _Adam._ Off Goddys wysdam for to lere, And in kunnyng to be his pere, Of thyn hand I take it here, And xal sone tast this mete. _Adam dicet sic._ Alas! alas! ffor this fals dede, My flesly frend my fo I fynde, Schameful synne doth us unhede, I se us nakyd before and behynde. Oure lordes wurd wold we not drede, Therfore we be now caytyvys unkynde, Oure pore prevytés ffor to hede, Summe ffygge-levys fayn wolde I fynde, ffor to hyde oure schame. Womman, ley this leff on thi pryvyté, And with this leff I xal hyde me, Gret schame it is us nakyd to se, Oure lord God thus to grame. _Eva._ Alas! that evyr that speche was spokyn, That the fals aungel seyd onto me, Alas! oure makers byddyng is brokyn, ffor I have towchyd his owyn dere tre. Oure fflescly eyn byn al unlokyn, Nakyd for synne ouresylf we se, That sory appyl that we han sokyn, To dethe hathe brouth my spouse and me, Ryth grevous is oure synne. Of mekyl shame now do we knowe, Alas! that evyr this appyl was growe, To dredful deth now be we throwe, In peyne us evyr to pynne. _Deus._ Adam, that with myn handys I made, Where art thou now? what hast thou wrought? _Adam._ A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade, I here thi voys, but I se the nought. _Deus._ Adam, why hast thou synnyd so sone, Thus hastyly to breke my bone, And I made the mayster, undyr mone, Trewly of every tre. O tre I kept for my owe, Lyff and deth therin I knowe, Thi synne fro lyf now the hath throwe, ffrom deth thou mayst not fle.