_Caym._ Amonges alle ffolys that gon on grownd, I holde that thou be on of the most, To tythe the best that is most sownd, And kepe the werst that is nere lost. But I more wysly xal werke this stownde, To tythe the werst, and make no bost, Off alle my cornys that may be fownde, In alle my ffeldys bothe crofte and cost, I xal lokyn on every syde. Here I tythe this unthende sheff, Lete God take it or ellys lef, Thow it be to me gret repreff, I ȝeve no ffors this tyde. _Abelle._ Now Caym, brother, thou dost ful ille, ffor God the sent bothe best and werst, Therfore thou shewe to hym good wylle, And tythe to God evyr of the best. _Caym._ In feyth, thou shewyst now a febylle skylle, It wolde me hyndyr and do me greff, What were God the better, thou sey me tylle, To ȝevyn hym awey my best sheff, And kepe myself the wers? He wylle neyther ete nor drynke, ffor he doth neyther swete nor swynke: Thou shewyst a ffebyl reson, me thynke, What thou fonnyst as a best I gesse. _Abelle._ ȝit me thynkyth my wyt is good. To God evermore sum love to shewe, Off whom we have oure dayly food, And ellys we had but lytyl drewe. _Caym._ ȝitt me thynkeht thi wytt is wood, ffor of thi lore I ffynde but ffewe; I wylle never the more chawnge my mood, ffor no wordys that thou dost shewe; I sey I wylle tythe the werst. _Abelle._ Now God, that syt in hefne above, On whom is sett alle myn hool love, This wyckyd wylle from the he showe, As it plesyth hym best! _Hic ardent decimum Abel et Caym; quo facto, dicent_, _Caym._ Herke, Abel, brother, what aray is this, Thy tythyng brennyth as ffyre fful bryght, It is to me gret wondyr i-wys, I trow this is now a straunge syght. _Abelle._ Goddys wylle fforsothe it is, That my tythyng with fyre is lyth, ffor of the best were my tythis, And of the werst thou dedyst hym dyght, Bad thyng thou hym bede. Of the best was my tythyng, And of the werst was thin offryng, Therfor God Almyghty, hevyn kyng, Alowyht ryht nowth thi dede. _Caym._ What? thou stynkyng losel, and is it so? Doth God the love and hatyht me? Thou xalt be ded, I xal the slo, Thi Lord thi God thou xalt nevyr se! Tythyng more xalt thou nevyr do, With this chavyl bon I xal sle the, Thi deth is dyht, thi days be go, Out of myn handys xalt thou not fle, With this strok I the kylle.— Now this boy is slayn and dede, Of hym I xal nevyr more han drede; He xal hereafter nevyr ete brede, With this gresse I xal hym hylle.