I pray ȝow, fadyr, and modyr dere, To blysse ȝour owyn dere dowtere, And pray ffor me in alle manere, And I ffor ȝow alle. _Joachym._ Almyghty God, he mote the blysse, And my blyssynge thou have also; In alle goodnesse ged the wysse, On londe or on watyr, wherevyr thou go. _Anna._ Now God the kepe from every mysse, And save the sownd in welthe from wo! I pray the, dowtyr, thou onys me kys, Or that thi modyr part the fro. I pray to God the save. I pray the, Mary, my swete chylde, Be lowe and buxhum, meke and mylde, Sad and sobyr and nothyng wylde, And Goddys blyssynge thou have. _Joachym._ fforwel, Josephe, and God ȝow spede, Wher so ȝe be in halle or boure. _Joseph._ Almyghty God, ȝour weys lede, And save ȝow sownd from alle doloure. _Anna._ Goddys grace on ȝow sprede, ffarewel, Mary, my swete fflowre, ffareweyl, Joseph, and God ȝow rede, ffareweyl my chylde and my tresowre, ffarewel, my dowtere ȝyng. _Maria._ ffarewel, fadyr and modyr dere, At ȝow I take my leve ryght here, God that sytt in hevyn so clere, Have ȝow in his kepyng. _Joseph._ Wyf, it is ful necessary this ȝe knowe, That I and my kynrede go hom before, For in sothe we have non hous of oure owe, Therfore I xal gon ordeyn and thanne come ȝow fore. We ar not ryche of werdly thynge, And ȝet of our sustenauns we xal not mys, Therfore abydyth here stylle to ȝour plesynge, To worchep ȝour God is alle ȝour blysse. He that is and evyr xal be Of hefne and helle ryche kynge, In erth hath chosyn poverté, And alle ryches and welthis refusynge. _Maria._ Goth, husbond, in oure lordys blyssynge, He mote ȝow spede in alle ȝour nede, And I xal here abyde ȝour aȝen comynge, And on my sawtere-book I xal rede. Now blyssyd be oure Lord ffor this, Of hefne and erthe and alle that beryth lyff, I am most bound to ȝow, Lord, i-wys, ffor now I am bothe mayde and wyff. Now, Lord God, dysspose me to prayour, That I may sey the holy psalmes of Davyth, Wheche book is clepyd the Sawtere, That I may preyse the, my God, therwith. Of the vertuys therof this is the pygth, It makyht sowles fayr, that doth it say, Angelys be steryd to help us therwith, It lytenyth therkenesse and puttyth develys away. The song of Psalmus is Goddys dete, Synne is put awey therby; It lernyth a man vertuys ful to be, It feryth mannys herte gostly. Who that it usyth customably, It claryfieth the herte, and charyté makyth cowthe, He may not ffaylen of Goddys mercy, That hath the preysenge of God evyr in his mowthe.