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250

260

267

Here are welle moo then we have seen,
Greses, and othere smalle floures,
That smelle fulle swete, of seyre colours.
Eve. Gladly, sir, I wille fulle fayne ;
When ye have sene theym com agane.
Adam. Bot luke welle, Eve, my wife,
That thou negh not the tree of life e;
For if thou do he bese ille paide,
Then be we tynt, as he has saide.

Eve. Go furth and play the alle aboute,
I shalle not negh it whiles thou art oute.
For be thou sekyr I were fulle loth
For any thyng that He were wroth.

Lucifer. Who wend ever this tyme have seyn?
We, that in sich myrth have beyn,

That we shuld suffre so mych wo?

Who wold ever trow it shuld be so ?

Ten orders in heven were

Of angels, that had offyce sere ;
Of ich order, in thare degre,
The ten parte felle downe with me ;
For they held with me that tyde,
And mantenyd me in my pride,
Bot herkyns, felows, what I say,
The joy that we have lost for ay,-
God has maide man with his hend,
To have that blis withoutten end,
The nine ordre to fulfille,

That after us left, sich is his wille,
And now ar thay in paradise
Bot thens thay shalle if we be wise.

The MS. has apparently here lost four leaves.

8

MACTACIO ABEL, SECUNDA PAGINA.

GLOVER PAG....

Garcio. Alle haylle, alle haylle, bothe blithe

and glad, a

For here com I, a mery lad,

a

Be peasse your dyn, my master bad,
Or els the deville you spede.

Wote ye not I com before,

Bot who that janglis any more
He must blaw my blak hoille bore,
Both behynd and before, C
Tille his tethe blede.

Felowes, here I you forbede
To make nother nose ne cry
Who so is so hardy to do that dede
The deville hang hym up to dry. &
Gedlynges, I am a fulle grete wat, &
A good yoman my master hat,

Fulle welle ye alle hym ken;
Begyn he with you for to stryfe,
Certes, then mon ye never thryfe,
Bot I trew, be God on life,

Som of you are his men.

Bot let youre lippis cover youre ten,

Harlottes, everichon,

For if my master com, welcom hym then,

Fare welle, for I am gone.

Cayn. Go furth, Greyn horne! and war oute
Gryme!

Drawes on, God gif you ille to tyme!

Ye stand as ye were fallen in

swyme,

What! wille ye no forther mare?

War, let me se how Down wille draw,

Yit, shrew, yit, pulle on a thraw!

What, it semys for me ye stand none aw,
I say Donnyng, go fare!

A, ha! God gif the soro and care!
Lo! now hard she what I saide;
Now yit art thou the warst mare
In plogh that ever I haide.

40

50

How! Pike-harnes, how! com heder belife!
Garcio. I fend, Godes forbot, that ever thou

thrife!

Cayn. What, boy, shal I bothe hold and drife?
Heris thou not how I cry?

Garcio. Say Malle and Stott, wille ye not go?
Lemyng, Morelle, White-horne, io,

Now wille ye not se how thay hy?

Cayn. Gog gif the sorow, boy, want of mete
it gars.

Garcio. Thare provand, sir, for thi, I lay
behynd thare ars,

And tyes them fast bi the nekes
With many stanys in thare hekes.
Cayn. That shalle bi thi fals chekes.
Garcio. And have agane as right.
Cayn. I am the master, wilt thou fight?
Garcio. Yai, with the same mesure and weght
That I boro wille I qwite.

Cayn. We, now, no thyng, bot calle on tyte

That we had ployde this land.

Garcio. Harrer, Morelle, iofurthe, hyte,

And let the ploghe stand.

Abelle. God as he bothe may

and can

Spede the, brothere, and thi man.

Cayn. Com kis myn ars, me list not ban,
As welcom standes ther oute.

Thou shuld have bide til thou were cald,
and other drife or hald,

Com nar,

And kys the devillis toute.

Go grese thi shepe under the toute,

For that is the most lefe.

Abelle. Broder, ther is none here aboute

That wold the any grefe ;

Bot, leif brother, here my sawe,

It is the custom of oure law,

Shalle worship God with sacrifice.

Oure fader us bad, oure fader us kend,

That oure tend shuld be brend.

Com furthe, brothere, and let us gang
To worship God; we dwelle fulle lang;
Gif we hym parte of oure fee,
Corne or catalle, wheder it be.
And therfor, brother, let us weynd,

80

१०

५०

168

10

And first clens us from the feynd

Or we make sacrifice;

Then blis withoutten end

Get we for oure servyce,

Of hym that is oure saulis leche.

Cayn. How, let furth youre geyse, the fox wille
preche ;

How long wilt thou me appech
With thi sermonyng?

Hold thi tong, yit I say,

Even there the good wife strokid the hay;
Or sit downe in the dewille way,

With thi vayn carpyng.

Shuld I leife my plogh and alle thyng
And go with the to make offeryng?
Nay! thou fyndes me not so mad!
Go to the deville, and say I bad!
What gifys God the to rose hym so?
Me gefys he nocht bot soro and wo.
Abelle. Cayn, leife this vayn carpyng,
For God gifys the alle thi lifyng.

Cayn. Yit boroed I never a farthyng
Of hym, here my hend.

Abelle. Brother, as elders have us kend,
First shuld we tend with oure hend

And to his lofyng sithen be brend.

Cayn. My farthyng is in the preest hand

Syn last tyme I offyrd.

Abelle. Leif brother, let us be walkand,

I wold oure tend were profyrd.

Cayn. We, wherof shuld I tend, leif brothere?

For I am iche yere wars then othere,

Here my trouthe it is none othere,
My wynnyngs ar bot meyn,
No wonder if that I be leyn,
Fulle long tille hym I may me neyn.
For bi hym that me dere boght

I traw that he wille leyn me noght.

Abelle. Yis, alle the good thou has in wone

Of Godes grace is bot alone.

Cayn. Lenys he me as com thrift apon the so?

For he has ever yit beyn my fo,

For had he my freynd beyn

Other gates it had beyn seyn.

When alle mens corne was fayre in feld

120

N

Then was myne not worthe an eld;
When I shuld saw, and wantyd seyde,
And of corne had fulle grete neyde,
Then gaf he me none of his,
No more wille I gif hym of this.
Hardely hold me to blame
Bot if I serve hym of the same.

Abelle. Leif brother, say not so,
Bot let us furth togeder go;
Good brother, let us weynd sone,
No longer here I rede we hone.
Cayn. Yei, yei, thou jangyls waste;
The deville me spede if I have hast,
As long as I may lif,

To dele my good or gif

Ayther to God or yit to man,
Of any good that ever I wan;
130 For had I giffen away my goode

Then myghte I go with a ryffen hood,
And it is better hold that I have

Then go from doore to doore and crave.

Abelle. Brother, com furthe, in Godes name, I am fulle ferd that we get blame;

Hy we fast that we were thore.

Cayn. We, ryn on, in the devill's name before.

We may, man, I hold the mad,

Wenys thou now that I list gad
To gif away my warldes aght?

The deville hym spede that me so taghte!

What nede had I my travelle to lose

To were my shoyn and ryfe my hose?

Abelle. Dere brother, hit were grete wonder

That I and thou shuld go in sonder,

Then wold oure fader have grete ferly;

Ar we not brether, thou and I?

Cayn. No, bot cry on, cry, whyles the thynk good;

Here my trowthe, I hold the woode;

150 Wheder that he be blithe or wrothe
To dele my good is me fulle lothe.
I have gone oft on softer wise
There I trowed some prow wold rise.
Bot welle I se go must I nede,

Now weynd before, ille myght thou spede!