With childe she was, tho sothe to telle, And I gaf reed my fader to quelle, So God me bryng out of care; Now God Fader in Trinite, Have merci on here and on me, Of blisse I am all bare. And after that with outen othe, Oure fader and oure moder bothe, Whanne that it was eve; And thei bothe aslepe were, We wenten to hem bothe in fere, And slowe hem with outen weve (?). And quanne this dede was i-do, We wenten away bothe to, Mi sister wente behynde; As gret with childe as sche was, I lep to here a woligret pas, And dede here heved of wynde. Sche that was me lef and dere, I smot here heved of be the swere, Now lord, merci I crie; Fader, God omnipotent, Ne lete our soules never be schent, For the love of oure lefdie. Maries sone that sitteth in trone, Lade to the i make my mone, For thin holy grace; That we mote be present, At the day of jujement, And seen thin holi face." ... ... ... "Thanne he sei a leoun come, And taken awei hese yonge sone, On hym he gaped wide. The Lyoun bar that child with hym, Awei rennynge wroth and grym, The knyth was ney aswoune; There he was in the water deep, It was no wonder thow he wep, Of Care hadde [he] inow. Sore he gan to sihhe and grone, Thei he ne seide wordes none, To loude he moste tee; A wonder thyng he sey thar, A wolf hese other child away bar, He fel doun on swoune on kne. Tho that he aswouning ros, He loked abouten and hym agros, Hese wit was ney forlore; But yet he thouthe on Ihū Crist, On his deth and on hese uprist, That for us was i-bore. Lord God Almythti, thou it wost, Fadir sone and holi gost, To thee i menene my mone; For my spouse that was so trewe, Fadir hende brith of newe, Wol wo is me alone. For my sones that ben forlorn, That wilde bestes hath awei born, I not nouth where to wone; To wheche lond mai i fle, How longe schal i on lyve be, Sorewes comen gret wone. Of Job i well bethenke me, That long in welthe hadde be, And fel sone in care; Ih[=u] Crist for love of The, To carful well i nevere be, How so it ever fare. I have wepte al my fille, I nele no more, i well be stille, Goddes helpe is us ney; Thanne come an aungel from hevene, And spake to hym with mylde Stevene, Of God that woneth on hey. Be bold blithe, he seide, Eustace, For in hevene is maad thi place, There thou schalt myrie be; Thi children and thi wif, Schal have longe lyf, And al that blisse i-se. Thus long he wente forth his wai, Biddynge his bedes on hase lai,