_Joseph._ How, dame, how! undo ȝoure dore, undo! Are ȝe at hom? why speke ȝe notht? _Susanna._ Who is ther? why cry ȝe so? Telle us ȝour herand. Wyl ȝe ought? _Joseph._ Undo ȝour dore, I sey ȝow to, ffor to com in is alle my thought. _Maria._ It is my spowse that spekyth us to; Ondo the dore, his wyl were wrought. Wellecome hom, myn husbond dere, How have ȝe ferd in fer countré? _Joseph._ To gete oure levynge withowtyn dwere, I have sore laboryd ffor the and me. _Maria._ Husbond, ryght gracyously now come be ȝe, It solacyth me sore sothly to se ȝow in syth. _Joseph._ Me merveylyth, wyff, surely ȝour face I cannot se, But as the sonne with his bemys qwhan he is most bryth. _Maria._ Husbond, it is as it plesyth oure Lord, that grace of hym grew, Who that evyr beholdyth me veryly, They xall be grettly steryd to vertu, ffor this ȝyfte and many moo, good Lord, gramercy. _Joseph._ How hast thou ferde, jentyl mayde, Whyl I have be out of londe? _Maria._ Sekyr, sere, beth nowth dysmayde, Ryth aftyr the wyl of Goddys sonde. _Joseph._ That semyth evyl, I am afrayd, Thi wombe to hyȝe doth stonde. I dred me sore I am betrayd, Sum other man the had in honde, Hens sythe that I went. Thy wombe is gret, it gynnyth to ryse, Than hast thou begownne a synfulle gyse, Telle me now in what wyse, Thyself thou hast thus schent. Ow! dame, what thinge menyth this? With childe thou gynnyst ryth gret to gone. Sey me, Mary, this childys fadyr ho is? I pray the telle me, and that anon. _Maria._ The fadyr of hevyn and ȝe it is, Other fadyr hath be non; I dede nevyr forfete with man i-wys; Wherfore I pray ȝow amende ȝour mon,— This childe is Goddys and ȝour. _Joseph._ Goddys childe! thou lyist, in fay; God dede nevyr jape so with may, And I can nevyr ther, I dare wel say, ȝitt so nyh thi boure. But ȝit I sey, Mary, whoos childe is this? _Maria._ Goddys and ȝoure, I sey i-wys. _Joseph._ ȝa! ȝa! alle olde men to me take tent, And weddyth no wyff in no kynnys wyse, That is a ȝonge wenche, be myn asent, ffor doute and drede and swyche servyse. Alas! alas! my name is shent! Alle men may me now dyspyse, And seyn, “olde cokwold, thi bowe is bent Newly now after the Frensche gyse.” Alas and welaway! Alas! dame, why dedyst thou so? ffor this synne that thou hast do, I the forsake and from the go, ffor onys, evyr, and ay. _Maria._ Alas! gode spowse, why sey ȝe thus? Alas! dere hosbund, amende ȝour mod. It is no man, but swete Jhesus, He wylle be clad in flesche and blood, And of ȝour wyff be born. Sephor, ffor sothe, the aungel, thus seyd he, That Goddys sone in Trynité, ffor mannys sake a man wolde be, To save that is forlorn.