Tercius Tortor. Here ar men us emang lele in oure lay, wille ly for no lede,

And I wytnes at thaym if I wroght any wrang.
Primus Tortor. Thou wroght no dyssayt, for
sothe, that we saw,

For-thi thou art worthi, and won is this weyd
At thyn awne wylle.

Pilatus. Yee, bot me pays not that playng to puf nor to blaw,

If he have righte I ne rek or reson thertylle,
I refe it hym noght.

Tercius Tortor. Have gud day, sir, and grefe you not ylle,

For if it were duble fulle dere is it boght.

Pilatus. Sir, sen thou has won this weyd say wille thou vowche safe

Of thi great gudnes this garment on me?

Tercius Tortor. Sir, I say you certan this shalle you not have.

Pilatus. Thou shalle forthynk it in faythe, Fy, what thou art fre;

Unbychid, unbayn.

Tercius Tortor. For ye thrett me so throle, Were it siche thre

Here I gif you this gud.

Pilatus. Now, gramercy! agayn,

Mekille thank and myn and this shalle be ment. Primus Tortor. Bot I had not left it so lightly had play me it lent.

Pilatus. No, bot he is faythefulle and fre, and that shalle be ment

And more if I may,

If he myster to me

Amend hym I men.

Tercius Tortor. I vowche safe it be so, the sothe

forto say.

Primus Tortor. Now thise dyse that ar undughty, for los of this good,

Here I forswere hertely by Mahownes blood;
For was I never so happy, by mayn nor by mode,
To wyn withe siche sotelty to my lyfes fode,
As ye ken;

Thise dysars and thise hullars,
Thise cokkers and thise bollars,

And alle purs cuttars,

Bese welle war of thise men.

Secundus Tortor. Fy, fy, on thise dyse, the deville I theym take,

Unwytty, unwyse, with thaym that wold lake;

As fortune assyse men wylle she make,

Her maners ar nyse, she can downe and uptake,
And ryche

She turnes up so downe,

And under abone,

Most chefe of renowne

She castes in the dyche.

By hir meanes she makys dysers to selle,

As thay sytt and lakys, thare corne and thare catelle;
Then cry thay and crakkys, bowne unto batelle,
His hyppys then bakes no symnelle

For hote.

Bot fare welle, thryfte,

Is ther none other skyfte

Bot syfte, lady, syft,

Thise dysars thay dote.

Tercius Tortor. What commys of dysyng I pray you hark after

Bot los of good in lakyng and oft tymes men's slaghter!

Thus sorow is at partyng, at metyng if ther be laghter,

I red leyf siche vayn thyng and serve God herafter For heven's blys;

That Lord is most myghty,

And gentyllyst of Jury,

We helde to hym holy,

How thynk ye by this?

Pilatus. Welle worthe you alle thre, most doughty in dede,

Of alle the clerkes that I know most conyng ye be,
By soteltys of youre sawes youre lawes forto lede,
I graunt you playn powere and frenship frele,

I say;
Dew vows, mon senyours!

Mahowne most myghty in castels and towres
He kepe you, lordynges, and alle youres,
And havys alle gud day.

EXPLICIT PROCESSUS TALENTORUM.

INCIPIT EXTRACTIO ANIMARUM AB INFERNO.

Jesus. My fader me from blys has send Tille erthe for mankynde sake,

Adam mys for to amend,

My deth nede must I take;

I dwellyd ther thryrty yeres and two,
And som dele more, the sothe to say,
In anger, pyne, and mekylle wo,
I dyde on cros this day.

Therfor tille helle now wille I
To chalange that is myne,

Adam, Eve, and othere mo,

Thay shalle no longer dwelle in pyne;
The feynde theym wan withe trayn,
Thrughe fraude of earthly fode,
I have theym boght agan

With shedyng of my blode.

And now I wille that stede restore,

Whiche the feynde felle fro for syn,

Som tokyn wille I send before,

Withe myrthe to gar thare gammes begyn.
A light I wille thay have

To know I wille com sone,

My body shalle abyde in grave

Tille alle this dede be done.

Adam. My brether, herkyn unto me here,

More hope of helth never we had,

Four thousand and six hundred yere
Have we bene here in darknes stad ;
Now se I tokyns of solace sere,
A gloryous gleme to make us glad,
Wherthrughe I hope that help is nere,
That sone shalle slake oure sorowes sad.
Eve. Adam, my husband heynd,

This menys

solace certan,

Siche lighte can on us leynd

In paradyse fulle playn.

Isaias. Adam, thrugh thi syn

Here were we put to dwelle,
This wykyd place within,
The name of it is helle;

Here paynes shalle never blyn

That wykyd ar and felle,
Love that lord withe wyn

His lyfe for us wold selle.

Et cantent omnes "Salvator mundi," primum versum.

Adam thou welle understand

I am Isaias, so Crist me kende

I spake of folk in darknes walkand,
I saide a light shuld on them lende;
This light is alle from Crist commande
That he tille us has hedir sende,
Thus is my poynt proved in hand,
As I before to fold it kende.

Simeon. So may I telle of farlys feylle,
For in the tempylle his freyndes me fande,
Me thoght dayntethe with hym to deylle,
I halsyd hym homely with my hand,
I saide, Lord, let thi servandes leylle
Pas in peasse to lyf lastande,

Now that myn eeyn has sene thyn hele
No longer lyst I lyf in lande.
This light thou has purvayde

For theym that lyf in lede,

That I before of the have saide

I se it is fulfillyd in dede.

Johannes Baptista. As a voice cryand I kend The wayes of Crist, as I welle can,

I baptisid hym with bothe myn hende

In the water of flume Jordan ;

The Holy Gost from heven discende

As a white dowfe downe on me than,

The Fader voyce oure myrthes to amende
Was made to me lyke as a man;

"Yond is my son", he saide,

"And whiche pleasses me fulle welle,"

His light is on us layde,

And commys oure karys to kele.

Moyses. Now this same nyght lernyng have I,

To me, Moyses, he shewid his myght,

And also to another oone, Hely,

Where we stud on a hille on hyght,

As whyte as snaw was his body,
His face was like the son for bright,
No man on mold was so mighty
Grathly durst loke agans that light,
And that same lighte here se I now
Shynyng on us, certayn,

Where thrughe truly I trow

That we shalle sone pas fro this payn.

Rybald. Sen fyrst that helle was mayde and I was put therin

Siche sorow never ere I had, nor hard I siche a dyn,

My hart begynnys to brade, my wytt waxys thyn, I drede we can not be glad, thise saules mon fro us twyn;

How, Belsabub! bynde thise boys, siche harow was never hard in helle.

Belzabub. Out, Rybald! thou rores, what is betyd? can thou oght telle ?

Rybald. Whi, herys thou not this ugly noyse! Thise lurdans that in lymbo dwelle

They make menyng of many joyse,

And muster myrthes theym emelle.

Belzebub. Myrth? nay, nay! that poynt is past, More hope of helthe shalle they never have. Rybald. Thay cry on Crist fulle fast,

And says he shalle thaym save. Belzabub. Yee, though he do not I shalle

For thay ar sparyd in specyalle space,

Whils I am prynce and pryncypalle

Thay shalle never pas out of this place;
Calle up Astarot and Anaballe

To gyf us counselle in this case;

Telle Berith and Bellyalle

To mar theym that siche mastry mase;

Say to sir Satan oure syre,

And byd hym bryng also

Sir Lucyfer lufly of lyre.

Rybald. Alle redy lord I go.

Jesus. Attollite portas, principes, vestras et eleva

mini portæ æternales, et introibit rex gloriæ.

Rybald. Out, harro, out! what deville is he

That callys hym kyng over us alle?

Hark Belzabub, com ne,

For hedusly I hard hym calle.