Now, my jentylle and curteys knyghtes, herke to me this stownde, Good tyme sone me thynkyghe at dyner that we were; Smertly therfore sett a tabylle anon here fful sownde, Coverid with a coryous clothe and with ryche wurthy fare; Servyse ffor the lovelyest lorde that levynge is on grownde, Beste metes, and wurthyest wynes, loke that ȝe non spare; Thow that a lytyl pynt xulde coste a mˡ. pownde, Brynge alwey of the beste, for coste take ȝe no care,— Anon that it be done. _Senescallus._ My lorde, the tabyl is redy dyght; Here is watyr, now wasche forth ryght! Now blowe up mynstralle with alle ȝour myght! The servyse comyth in sone. _Herodes._ Now am I sett at mete, And wurthely servyd at my degré; Com forthe knyghtes, sytt down and ete, And be as mery as ȝe kan be. _Primus Miles._ Lord, at ȝowre byddynge we take oure sete, With herty wyl obey we the; Ther is no lord of myght so grett, Thorwe alle this werde in no countré, In wurchepp to abyde! _Herodes._ I was nevyr meryer here beforn, Suthe that I was fyrst born, Than I am now ryght in this morn,— In joy I gynne to glyde. _Mors._ Ow! I herde a page make preysyng of pride, Alle prynces he passyth, he wenyth, of powsté; He wenyth to be the wurthyest of alle this werde wyde,— Kynge ovyr alle kynges that page wenyth to be. He sent into Bedlem, to seke on every syde, Cryst for to qwelle, yf thei myght hym se; But of his wykkyd wyl lurdeyn ȝitt he lyede, Goddys sone doth lyve,—ther is no Lord but he! Over alle lordys he is kynge! I am Dethe, Goddys masangere! Allemyghty God hath sent me here, ȝon lordeyn to sle, withowtyn dwere, ffor his wykkyd workynge. I am sent fro God, Deth is my name! Alle thynge that is on grownd I welde at my wylle; Bothe man and beste, and byrdys, wylde and tame, Whan that I come them to, with deth I do them kylle. Erbe, gres, and tres stronge, take hem alle in same; ȝa, the grete myghty okys with my dent I spylle; What man that I wrastele with, he xal ryght sone have schame, — I ȝeve him suche a trepett, he xal evyr more ly stylle, ffor deth kan no sporte. Wher I smyte, ther is no grace, ffor aftere my strook man hath no space To make amendys ffor his trespace, But God hym graunt comforte.