Ow! se how prowdely ȝon kaytyff sytt at mete! Of deth hath he no dowte, he wenyth to leve evyrmore; To hym wyl I go, and ȝeve hym suche an hete, That alle the lechis of the londe his lyf xul nevyr restore: Aȝens my dredful dentys it vaylyth nevyr to plete, Or I hym part fro I xal hym make ful pore; Alle the blood of his body I xal hym owt swete, ffor now I go to sle hym with strokys sad and sore, This tyde. Bothe hym and his knyghtes alle, I xal hem make to me but thralle, With my spere sle him I xalle, And so cast down his pride. _Herodes Rex._ Now, kende knyghtes, be mery and glad! With alle good diligens shewe now sum myrthe! ffor, be gracyous Mahound, more myrthe never I had, Ne nevyr more joye was inne from tyme to tyme of my byrthe; ffor now my fo is ded and prendyd as a padde, Above me is no kynge on grownd nere on gerthe! Merthis therfore make ȝe, and be ryght nothynge sadde; Spare nether mete nor drynke, and spare for no dyrthe Of wyne nor of brede. ffor now am I a kynge alone, So wurthy as I may ther be none, Therfore knyghtes be mery echone, ffor now my ffo is dede! _Primus Miles._ Whan the boys sprawlyd at my sperys hende, By Sathanas, oure syre, it was a goodly syght! A good game it was the boy for to shende, That wolde a bene oure kynge and put ȝow from ȝour ryght. _Secundus Miles._ Now trewly, my lorde the kynge, we had ben unkende, And nevyr non of us able for to be a knyght; If that any of us to hem had ben a frende, And a savyd any lyff aȝen thi mekyl myght, — ffrom deth hem to flytt. _Herodes Rex._ Amonges alle that grett rowthte He is ded, I have no dowte, Therfore, menstrelle, rownd abowte Blowe up a mery fytt. _Hic dum buccinant mors interficiat Herodem et duos milites subito, et diabolus recipiat eos_, _Diabolus._ Alle oure! alle oure! this catel is myn! I xalle hem brynge onto my celle! I xal hem teche pleys fyn, And shewe suche myrthe as is in helle! It were more bettyr amonges swyne, That evyr more stynkyn ther be to dwelle; ffor in oure logge is so gret peyn, That non erthely tonge can telle: With ȝow I go my way. I xal ȝow here forthe with me, And shewe ȝow sportes of oure gle, Of oure myrthis now ȝal ȝe se, And evyr synge “welaway.” _Mors._ Off kynge Herowde alle men beware, That hath rejoycyd in pompe and pryde; ffor alle his boste of blysse ful bare, He lythe now ded here on his syde! ffor whan I come, I cannot spare, Fro me no whyht may hym hyde; Now is he ded and cast in care, In helle pytt evyr to abyde; His lordchep is al lorn. Now is he as pore as I, Wormys mete is his body, His sowle in helle ful peynfully Of develis is al to-torn.