_Secundus rex._ Lorde, I knele upon my kne; Sote encence I offere to the, Thow xalte be the fyrst of hyȝ degré, None so mekelle of myght! In Goddes howse, as men xalle se, Thow xalt honor the Trynité, Iij. personys in oon Gode free, And alle oo lord of myght! _Tertius Rex._ Lorde, I knele downe be thy bede, In maydyns flesche thou arte hede, Thy name xal be wyde rede, And kyng over alle kynges. Byttyr myre to the I brynge, ffor byttyr dentes on the thei xalle dyng, And byttyr deth xalle be thi endyng, And therfor I make mornyng. _Maria._ Kyngges kynde, ffrome the fende God ȝow defende! Homwarde ȝe wende, And to your places ȝe lende, That ȝe xulde tende. _Primus rex._ Now have we the place fownde, To Herode go we this stownde, With owr wordes we were bownde, That we xulde cum ageyne. Go we a pace and sey owr speche, ffor we have fownde our Lorde and leche; Alle the truth we wylle hem teche, How the kyng is borne of a quene. _Secundus Rex._ Myn hede is hevy as lympe of leede, But yf I slepe, I am adrede My witt xalle fare the worse; I wax hevy in lyme and flanke, Downe I ley me upone this banke, Under this bryght sterre i-wys. _Tertius Rex._ Brother, I must lye the bye, I will go never over this stye Tylle I have a slepe. The yong kyng and his mother Mary, Save us alle from every velany! Now Cryst us save and kepe! _Primus rex._ Such hevynese have us cawght, I must drynk with ȝow a drawght, To slepe a lytyll whyle. I am hevy heed and footte, I xulde stumbylle at rescue and root, And I xulde goo a myle. _Hic dormiunt reges, et venit angelus, et dicit eis._ _Angelus._ ȝe kyngges on this hille, Werk ȝe not aftyr Herodes wylle, For yf ȝe do, he wylle yow kylle This day or nyght. My lorde ȝow sent this tydyng, To rest yow knygges in rych clothyng, And whan ȝe rysyn and goo to your dwellyng, Tak home the wey fulle ryght. Whether that ȝe be wakyn or slepe, My lorde God xalle yow kepe, In goode tyme ȝe dede downe drepe To take ȝowr rest. Herowdys to the devyl he tryste, To marre ȝow in a thyrke myste, My lord God is ful of lyste, To glathe ȝow for his geste. And therfore, kynges, whan ȝe ryse, Wendyth forthe be weys wyse, Ther ȝour halle be sett in syse, In dyverse londe. The ffadyr of God in alle thynge Hath ȝow grawntyd his swete blyssynge, He xal ȝow save ffrom alle shendynge, With his ryght honde. _Tunc surgant reges, et dicat_