Sere, he may evyl go that is ner lame; In sothe I com as fast as I may. _Episcopus._ Offyr up ȝour rodde, sere, in Goddys name! Why do ȝe not as men ȝow pray? _Joseph._ Now in the wurchep of God of hevyn, I offyr this ȝerde as lely whyte, Prayng that Lord of gracyous stewyn, With hert, with wytt, with mayn, with myght. And as he made the sterres seven, This sympyl offrynge that is so lyght, To his wurchep he weldyghe evyn, ffor to his wurchep this ȝerd is dyghte. Lord God, I the pray, To my herte thou take good hede, And nothynge to my synful dede, After my wyl thou qwyte my mede, As plesyth to thi pay. I may not lyfte myn handys heye, Lo! lo! lo! what se ȝe now? _Episcopus._ A! mercy! mercy! mercy! Lord, we crye, The blyssyd of God we se art thou. _Et clamant omnes “mercy! mercy!”_ A! gracyous God, in hevyn trone, Ryht wundyrful thi werkys be, Here may we se a merveyl one, A ded stok beryth floures ffre! Joseph in hert, withoutyn mone, Thou mayst be blythe with game and gle, A mayd to wedde thou must gone, Be this meracle I do wel se. Mary is here name; _Joseph._ What, xuld I wedde? God forbede! I am an old man, so God me spede, And with a wyff now to levyn in drede, It wore neyther sport nere game. _Episcopus._ Aȝens God, Joseph, thou mayst not stryve, God wyl that thou a wyff have; This fayr mayde xal be thi wyve, She is buxum and whyte as lave. _Joseph._ A! shuld I have here? ȝe lese my lyff: Alas! dere God, xuld I now rave? An old man may nevyr thryff With a ȝonge wyff, so God me save! Nay, nay, sere, lett bene, Xuld I now in age begynne to dote, If I here chyde she wolde clowte my cote, Blere myn ey, and pyke out a mote, And thus oftyn tymes it is sene. _Episcopus._ Joseph, now as I the saye, God hath assygnyd here to the; That God wol have do, sey thou not nay, Oure lord God wyl that it be so! _Joseph._ Aȝens my God not do I may, Here wardeyn and kepere wyl I evyr be; But fayr maydon, I the pray, Kepe the clene, as I xal me; I am a man of age. Therfore, sere busshop, I wyl that ȝe wete, That in bedde we xul nevyr mete, ffor i-wys mayden suete An old man may not rage. _Episcopus._ This holyest virgyn xalt thou maryn now, ȝour rodde foreschyth fayrest, that man may se; The Holy Gost we se syttyht on a bow! Now ȝelde we alle preysyng to the trenyté. _Et hic cantent, “Benedicta sit beata Trinitas.”_ Joseph, wole ȝe have this maydon to ȝour wyff, And here honour and kepe, as ȝe howe to do? _Joseph._ Nay, sere, so mote I thryff, I have ryght no nede therto. _Episcopus._ Joseph, it is Goddys wyl it xuld be so! Sey aftyr me, as it is skyl. _Joseph._ Sere, and to performe his wyl I bow therto, ffor alle thynge owyght to ben at his wyl. _Episcopus, et idem Joseph._