_Primus Rex._ A bryght sterre ledde us into Bedleem,— A bryghter thynge I saw in drem, Bryghtere than the sunne beeme, An aungelle I saw ryght here. The fayre floure that here gan falle, ffrom Herowdys kynge he gan us kalle, He taught us hom tylle our halle A wey by another mere. _Secundus Rex._ I sawghe a syght, Myn hert is lyght To wendyn home. God, fful of myght Hath us dyght ffro develys dome. _Tertius Rex._ Oure God I blysse, He sent us, i-wys His aungel bryght. Now we be wake, The wey to take Home fulle ryght. XVIII. THE PURIFICATION. _Symeon Justus._ I have be prest in Jherusalem here, And tawth Goddys lawe many a ȝere, Desyrynge in alle my mende, That the tyme we neyhand nere, In whiche Goddys son xul apere, In erthe to take mankende. Or I deyd that I myght fynde, My Savyour with myn ey to se; But that it is so longe behynde, It is grett dyscomforte onto me. ffor I waxe olde and wante my myght, And begynne to fayle my syght, The more I sorwe this tyde; Save only, as I telle ȝow ryght, God of his grace hath me hyght, That blysful byrth to byde; Wherfore now here besyde, To Sancta Sanctorum wyl I go, To pray God to be my gyde, To comfort me aftyr my wo. _Here Symeon knelyth and seyth_, A! gode God in Trinité! Whow longe xal I abyde the, Tyl that thou son thou doth sende, That I in erthe myght hym se? Good Lord, consydyr to me, I drawe fast to an ende; That or my strenthis fro me wende, Gode Lorde, send dow thi son, That I with my ful mende, Myght wurcheppe hym, if I con. Bothe with my fete and hondys to, To go to hym and handele also, My eyn to se hym in certayn. My tonge for to speke hym to, And alle my lemys to werk and do, In his servyse to be bayn. Send forth thi son, my Lord sovereyn, Hastely anon withowte teryenge; ffor fro this world I wolde be ffayn,— It is contrary to my levynge. _Angelus._ Symeon, leff thi careful stevene, ffor thi prayer is herd in hevene; To Jherusalem ffast now wynne. And ther xalt se ful evene, He that is Goddys son ffor to nevene, In the templ ther thou dwellyst inne. The darknes of orygynal synne, He xal make lyght and clarefye; And now the dede xal begynne, Whiche hath be spokyn be prophecye. _Symeon._ A! I thank the, Lord of grace, That hath grauntyd me tyme and space, To lyve and byde thys! And I wyl walk now to the place, Where I may se thi sonys face, Whiche is my joye and blys. I was nevyr lyghtere i-wys, To walke nevyr here beforn; ffor a mery tyme now is, Whan God my lord is born.