Myght we se onys that bryght on bed, Oure sorow it wolde unbynde. We xulde shadyr for no shoure, Buske us hens to Bedleem boure, To se that fayr fresche flowre, The mayde mylde in mynde. _Secundus Pastor._ Lete us ffolwe with alle oure myght, With songe and myrthe we xul us dyght, And wurchep with joye that wurthy wyght, That Lord is of mankynne. Lete us go fforthe fast on hye, And honowre that babe wurthylye, With merthe, songe, and melodye; Have do! this songe begynne! _Tunc pastores cantabunt “Stella cæli extirpavit.” Quo facto, ibunt ad querendum Christum._ _Primus Pastor._ Heyle floure of floures, fayrest i-fownde! Heyle, perle peerles, prime rose of prise! Heyl, blome on hedde! we xul be unbownde with thi blody woundys and werkys fulle wyse. Heyl, God grettest, I grete the on grownde! The gredy devyl xal grone grysly as a gryse, Whan thou wynnyst this worlde with thi wyde wounde, And puttyst man to paradys with plenty of prys; To love the is my delyte. Heyl, floure and fre! Lyght from the Trynyté! Heyl, blyssyd mote thou be! Heyl, mayden, fayrest in syght! _Secundus Pastor._ Heyl, floure ovyr fflour fowndyn in fryght! Heyl, Cryst, kynde in oure kyth! Heyl, werker of wele to wonyn us wyth! Heyl wynner i-wys! Heyl, fformere and ffrende! Heyl, ffellere of the fende! Heyl, clad in oure kende! Heyl, prince of paradys! _Tertius pastor._ Heyl, Lord over lordys, that lyggyst ful lowe! Heyl, kynge ovyr kynges thi kynrede to knowe! Heyl, comely knyth the devyl to overthrowe! Heyl, flowre of alle! Heyl, werkere to wynne Bodyes bowndyn in synne! Heyl, in a bestys bynne, Be-stad in a stalle! _Joseph._ Herdys on hylle, Bethe not stylle, But seyth ȝour wylle, To many a man; How God is born, This mery morn, That is forlorn Fyndyn he can. _Secundus Pastor._ We xulle telle, Be dale and hylle, How harwere of helle Was born this nyght, Myrthis to melle, And fendys to quelle, That were so felle Aȝens his ryght. _Secundus Pastor._ ffarewel, babe and barne of blys! ffarewel, Lord that lovely is! The to wurchep thi feet I kys; On knes to the I falle. The to wurchepe I falle on kne, Alle this werd may joye of the! Now farewel, Lord of grett pousté! ȝa, farewel, kynge of alle. _Tertius Pastor._ Thow I be the last that take my leve, ȝit fayre mullynge, take it nat at no greve; Now, fayre babe, wele mut thou cheve! ffayr chylde, now have good day. ffareweyl, myn owyn dere derlyng: I-wys thou art a ryght fayr thyng! ffarewel, my Lorde and my swetyng! ffarewel, born in pore aray! _Maria._ Now, ȝe herdmen, wel mote ȝe be, ffor ȝoure omage and ȝour syngynge: My sone xal aqwyte ȝow in hefne se,