Gabrielle. Lady, this is the prevate; The Holy Gost shalle light in the, And his vertue,

He shalle umshade and fulfylle

That thi madynhede shalle never spylle,
Bot ay be new ;

The child that thou shalle bere, madame,
Shalle Godes son be callid by name;
And se, Mary,

Elesabeth, thi cosyn, that is cald geld,
She has conceyffed a son in elde,
Of Zacary;

And this is, who wylle late,

The sext monethe of hyr conceytate,
That geld is cald.

No word, lady, that I the bryng,
Is unmyghtfulle to heven kyng,
Bot alle shalle hald.

Maria. I lofe my Lord alle weldand,
I am his madyn at his hand,
And in his wold;

I trow bodword, that thou me bryng,
Be done to me in alle thyng,
As thou has told.

Gabrielle. Mary, madyn heynd,

Me behovys to weynd,

My leyf at the I take.

Maria. Far to my freynd,

Who the can send,

For mankynde sake.

Josephe. Alle myghty God, what may this be! Of Mary my wyfe mervels me,

Alas, what has she wroght?

A, hyr body is grete and she with childe,
For me was she never fylyd,

Therfor myn is it noght.

I irke fulle sore with my lyfe,
That ever I wed so yong a wyfe,
That bargan may I ban,

To me it was a carefulle dede,
I myght welle wyt that yowthede
Wold have lykyng of man.

I am old, sothly to say,

Passed I am alle pervay play,

The gams fro me ar gone.

It is ille cowpled of youth and elde,
I wote welle, for I am unwelde,

Som othere has she tane.

She is with chyld, I wote never how,
Now, who wold any woman trow?

Certes, no man that can any goode ;
I wote not in the warld what I shald do,
Bot now then wylle I weynd hyr to,
And wytt who owe that foode.
Haylle, Mary, and welle ye be.
Why, bot woman, what chere with the ?
Maria. The better, sir, for you.
Josephe. So wold I, woman, that ye wore ;
Bot certes, Mary, I rew fulle sore
It standes so with the now.

Bot of a thyng frayn the I shalle,

Who owe this child thou gose with alle ?

Maria.

Syr, ye, and God of heven. Josephe. Myne, Mary ? do way thi dyn; That I shuld oght have parte therin Thou nedes it not to neven;

Wherto

nevyns thou me therto ?

I had never with the to do,

How shuld it then be myne ?

Whos is that chyld, so God the spede?

Maria. Syr, Godes and yowrs, with outen drede.

Josephe. That word had you to tyne,

For it is right fulle far me fro,

And I forthynkes thou has done so
Thise ille dedes bedene ;

And if thou speke thi self to spylle,

It is fulle sore agans my wylle,

If better myght have bene.

Maria. At Godes wylle, Josephe, must it be, For certanly bot God and ye

I know none othere man;

For fleshly was I never fylyd.

Josephe. How shuld thou thus then be with chyld ?

Excuse the welle thou can; I blame the not, sc God me save, Woman, maners if that thou have, Bot certes I say the this,

Welle wote thou, and so do I,

Thi body fames the openly,

That thou has done amys.

Maria. Yee, God he knowys alle my doyng. Josephe. We, now, this is a wonder thyng, I can noght say therto; Bot in my hart I have greatt care, And ay the longer mare and mare,

For doylle what shalle I do?

Godes and myn she says it is,
I wylle not fader it, she says amys,
For shame yit shuld she let,

To excuse her velany by me;
With hir I thynk no longer be,
I rew that ever we met.
And how we met ye shalle wyt sone,
Men use yong chyldren for to done
In temple for to lere ;

Soo dyd thay hir, to she wex more
Then othere madyns wyse of lore,
Then byshopes sayd to hir

"Mary, the behowfys to take
Som yong man to be thi make,

As thou seys other have,
In the temple which thou wylle neven;"
And she sayd, none, bot God of heven,
To hym she had hir tane,
She wold none othere for any saghe;
Thay sayd she must, it was the lagh,
She was of age thertille.

To the temple thay somond old and ying,
Alle of Juda ofspryng,

The law for to fulfille.

Thay gaf iche man a white wand,

And bad us bere them in oure hande,

.

To offre with good intent;

Thay offerd thare yerdes up in that tyde,

For I was old I stode be syde,

I wyst not what thay ment,

Thay lakyd oone thay sayde in hy,
Alle had offerd thay sayd bot I,
For I ay withdroghe me.

Furthe with my wande thay mayd me com,
my hand it floryshed with blome;

In

Then sayde thay all to me, "If thou be old mervelle not the,

For God of heven thus ordans he,
Thi wand shewys openly;

It florishes so, withouten nay,

That the behovys wed Mary the May;"
A sory man then was I,

I was fulle sory in my thoght,
I sayde for old I myght noght

Hir have never the wheder;

I was unlykely to hir so yong,
Thay sayde ther helpyd none excusyng,
And wed us thus togeder.

When I alle thus had wed hir thare,
We and my madyns home can fare,
That kynges doghters were;
Alle wroght thay sylk to fynd them on,
Mary wroght purpylle, the oder none,
Bot othere colers sere;

I left thaym in good peasse wenyd I,
Into the contre I went on hy,

My craft to use with mayn;
To gett oure lyfyng I must nede,
On Marie I prayd them take good hede,
To that I cam agane.

Nine monethes was I fro that myld,
When I cam home she was with chyld,
Alas, I sayd for shame!

I askyd ther women who that had done,
And thay me sayde an angelle sone,
Syn that I went from hame;
An angelle spake with that wyght,
And no man els, bi day nor nyght,
"Sir, therof be ye bald."

Thay excusyd hir thus sothly,

To make hir clene of hir foly,

And babyshed me that was old. Shuld an angelle this dede have wroght, Siche excusyng helpys noght,

For no craft that thay can;

A hevenly thyng, for sothe, is he,
And she is erthly, this may not be,
It is som othere man.

Certes, I forthynk sore of hir dede,
Bot it is long of yowth-hede,

Alle siche wanton playes;

For yong women wylle nedes play them,

With yong men if old forsake them,
Thus it is sene always.

Bot Marie and I playd never so sam,
Never togeder we used that gam,
I cam hir never so nere ;

She is as clene as cristalle clyfe
For me, and shalbe whyls I lyf,
The law wylle it be so.

And then am I cause of hir dede,
For-thi then can I now no rede,
Alas, what I am wo!
And sothly, if it so befalle,
Godes son that she be with alle,

If siche grace myght betyde,
I wote welle that I am not he,
Whiche that is worthi to be

That blyssed body besyde,
Nor yit to be in company;
To wyldernes I wille for-thi

Enfors me for to fare,

And never longer with hir dele,
Bot stylly shalle from hir stele,

That mete shalle we no mare.

Angelus. Do wa, Joseph, and mend thy thoght,
I warne the welle, and weynd thou noght,
To wyldernes so wylde;

Turne home to thi spouse agane,
Look thou deme in hir no trane,
For she was never fylde.

Wyte thou no wyrkyng of workes wast,
She has consavyd the Holy Gast,

And she shalle bere Godes son,

For-thi with hir, in thi degre,
Meek and buxom looke thou be,

And with hir dwelle and wone.

Josephe. A, Lord, I lof the alle alon,
That vowches safe that I be oone
To tent that chyld so ying,

I that thus have ungrathly gone,

And untruly taken apon

Mary, that dere darlyng.

I rewe fulle sore that I have sayde,
And of hir byrdyng hir upbrade,
And she not gylty is;

For-thi to hir now wylle I weynde,