_Lameth._ I xuld nevyr affayled what marke that ever were sett, Whyl that I myght loke and had my clere syght; And ȝitt, as me thynkyht, no man xuld shete bett Than I xuld do now, if myn hand were sett aryght. Aspye some marke, boy, my bowe xal I bende wyght, And sett myn hand evyn to shete at some best; And I dare ley a wagour his deth for to dyght, The marke xal I hitt, my lyff do I hest. _Adolescens._ Undyr ȝon grett bushe, mayster, a best do I se, Take me thin hand swythe and holde it ful stylle, Now is thin hand evyn as evyr it may be, Drawe up thin takylle ȝon best for to kylle. _Lameth._ My bowe xal I drawe ryght with herty wylle, This brod arwe I shete that best ffor to saylle; Now have at that busche ȝon best for to spylle, A sharppe schote I shote, therof I xall not faylle. _Cayn._ Out, out, and alas! myn hert is on sondyr. With a brod arwe I am ded and sclayn! I dye here on grounde, myn hert is alle to tundyr, With this brod arwe it is clovyn on twayn! _Lameth._ Herke, boy, cum telle me the trewthe in certeyn, What man is he that this cry doth thus make? _Adolescens._ Caym thou hast kyllyd, I telle the ful pleyn, With thi sharp shetyng his dethe hath he take. _Lameth._ Have I slayn Cayme? Alas! what have I done? Thou stynkynge lurdeyn, what hast thou wrought? Thou art the why I scle hym so sone, Therfore xal I kylle the here, thou skapyst nowght. _Hic Lameth cum arcu sua verberat adolescentem ad mortem, dicente adolescente_, _Adolescens._ Out, out, I deye here! my deth is now sought! This theffe with his bowe hath broke my brayn! Ther may non helpe be, my dethe is me brought, Ded here I synke down as man that is sclayn! _Lameth._ Alas! what xal I do? wrecche, wykkyd on woolde, God wyl be vengyd ful sadly on me; ffor deth of Caym I xal have vij. folde More peyn than he had that Abelle dede sle. These to mennys deth fulle sore bought xal be, Upon alle my blood God wylle venge this dede, Wherefore sore wepyng hens wyl I fle, And loke where I may best my hede sone heyde. _Hic recedat Lameth et statim intrat Noe cum navi cantantes_, _Noe._ With doolful hert syenge sad and sore, Grett mornyng I make ffor this dredful flood! Of man and of best is dreynte many a skore, Alle this werd to spylle these flodys be ful wood. And alle is for synne of mannys wylde mood, That God hath ordeyned this dredfulle vengeaunce; In this flood spylt is many a mannys blood, ffor synfulle levynge of man we have gret grevauns. Alle this hundryd ȝere ryght here have I wrought, This schypp for to make, as God dede byd me; Of alle maner bestes a copylle is in brought, Within my shypp borde on lyve for to be. Ryght longe God hath soferyd amendyng to se; Alle this hundryd ȝere God hath shewyd grace. Alas! fro gret syn man wyl not fle, God doth this vengeauns for oure gret trespase.