_Maria._ God, that in my body art sesyd, Thou knowist myn husbond is dysplesyd, To se me in this plight. ffor unknowlage he is desesyd, And therefore help that he were esyd, That he myght knowe the ful perfyght. ffor I have levyr abyde respyt, To kepe thi sone in privité, Grauntyd by the Holy Spyryt, Than that it xulde be opynd by me. _Deus._ Descende, I sey, myn aungelle, Onto Joseph, for to telle Suche as my wyl is; Byd hym with Mary abyde and dwelle, ffor it my sone fful snelle That she is with i-wys. _Angelus._ Almyghty God of blys, I am redy ffor to wende Wedyr as thi wyl is, To go bothe fer and hynde. Joseph, Joseph; thou wepyst shryle, ffro thi wyff why comyst thou owte? _Joseph._ Good sere, lete me wepe my ffylle, Go forthe thi wey and lett me nowght. _Angelus._ In thi wepynge, thou dost ryght ylle, Aȝens God thou hast myswrought; Go chere thi wyff with herty wylle, And chawnge thi chere, amende thi thought. Sche is a ful clene may. I telle the, God wyl of here be born, And sche clene mayd as she was beforn, To save mankynd that is forlorn, Go chere hyre therfore, I say. _Joseph._ A! lord God, benedicite! Of thi gret comforte I thank the, That thou sent me this space. I myght wel a wyst par-dé, So good a creature as she Wold nevyr a donne trespace. For sche is ful of Grace; I know wel I have myswrought, I walk to my pore place,— I aske fforgyfnes, I have mysthought. Now is the tyme sen at eye, That the childe is now to veryfye, Whiche xal save mankende, As it was spoke be prophesye; I thank the, God, that syttys on hye, With hert, wyl, and mende, That evyr thou woldyst me bynde To wedde Mary to my wyff, Thi blysful sone so nere to fynde, In his presens to lede my lyff. Alas! ffor joy I qwedyr and qwake; Alas! what hap now was this? A mercy, mercy, my jentyl make,— Mercy! I have seyd al amys; Alle that I have seyd here I forsake: ȝour swete fete now lete me kys. _Mary._ Nay, lett be my fete, not tho ȝe take, My mowthe ȝe may kys i-wys, And welcome onto me. _Joseph._ Gramercy, myn owyn swete wyff, Gramercy, myn hert, my love, my lyff, Xal I nevyr more make such stryf Betwix me and the. A! Mary, Mary, wel thou be, And blyssyd be the frewte in the, Goddys sone of myght! Now good wyff, fful of pyté, As be not evyl payd with me, Thow that thou have good ryght. As for my wronge in syght, To wyte the with ony synne, Had thou not be a vertuous wythe, God wold not a be the withinne.