For to drynk of a gowrde,

It holdes a mett potelle.

Maria. He that alle myghtes may, the makere of heven,

That is for to say my son that I neven,

Rewarde you this day, as he sett alle on seven,
He graunt you for ay his blys fulle even
Contynuyng;

He gyf you good grace,
Telle furth of this case,

He spede youre pase,

And graunt you good endyng.

Primus Pastor. Fare welle, fare Lorde! with thy moder also.

Secundus Pastor. We shalle this recorde where

as we go.

Tercius Pastor. We mon alle be restorde, God graunt it be so !

Primus Pastor. Amen, to that worde syng we therto

On hight,

To joy alle sam,

With myrthe and gam,

To the lawde of this lam

Syng we in syght.

EXPLICIT UNA PAGINA PASTORUM.

INCIPIT ALIA EORUNDEM.

Primus Pastor. Lord, what these weders ar cold, and I am ylle happyd;

I am nere hande dold, so long have I nappyd;
My legys thay fold, my fyngers ar chappyd,
It is not as I wold, for I am al lappyd

In sorow.

In stormes and tempest,

Now in the eest, now in the west,
Wo is hym has never rest

Myd day nor morow.

Bot we sely shepardes, that walkys on the

moore,

In fayth we are nere handes outt of the doore; No wonder as it standys if we be poore,

For the tylthe of oure landes lyys falow as the floore,

As ye ken.

We ar so hamyd,.

For-taxed and ramyd,

We ar mayde hand tamyd,

Withe thyse gentlery men.

Thus thay refe us oure rest, Oure Lady theym

wary,

These men that ar lord fest thay cause the ploghe tary.

That men say is for the best we fynde it contrary, Thus ar husbandes opprest, in point to myscary, On lyfe.

Thus hold thay us hunder,

Thus thay bryng us in blonder,

It were greatte wonder,

And ever shuld we thryfe.

For may he gett a paynt slefe or a broche now on dayes,

Wo is hym that hym grefe, or onys agane says, Dar no man hym reprefe, what mastry he mays, And yit may no man lefe oone word that he says

No letter.

He can make purveance,

With boste and bragance,

And alle is thrughe mantenance
Of men that are gretter.

Ther shalle com a swane as prowde as a po,
He must borow my wane, my ploghe also,
Then I am fulle fane to graunt or he go.
Thus lyf we in payne, anger, and wo,
By nyght and day;

He must have if he langyd

If I shuld forgang it,

I were better be hangyd

Then oones say hym nay.

It dos me good, as I walk thus by myn oone,
Of this warld for to talk in maner of mone.
To my shepe wylle I stalk and herkyn anone,
Ther abyde on a balk, or sytt on a store
Full soyne.

For I trowe, parde,

Trew men if thay be,

We gett more compane

Or it be noyne.

Secundus Pastor. Benste and Dominus! what may this bemeyne ?

Why fares this warld thus oft have we not sene. Lord, thyse weders ar spytus, and the weders fulle kene.

And the frost so hydus thay water myn eeyne,

No ly.

Now in dry, now in wete,

Now in snaw, now in slete,

When my shone freys to my fete
It is not alle esy.

Bot as far as I ken, or yit as I go,

We sely wodmen are mekylle wo;

We have sorow then and then, it fallys oft so,

Sely Capyll, oure hen, both to and fro

She kakyls,

Bot begyn she to crok,

Το

groyne or to clok,

Wo is hym is of oure cok,

For he is in the shekyls.

These men that ar wed have not alle thare wylle,

When they ar fulle hard sted thay syghe fulle stylle;

God wayte thay ar led fulle hard and fulle ylle, In bower nor in bed thay say noght ther tylle, This tyde.

My parte have I fun,

I know my lessun,

Wo is hym that is bun,

For he must abyde.

Bot now late in oure lyfys, a marvel to me,
That I thynk my hart ryfys siche wonders to see.
What that destany dryfys it shuld so be,

Som men wylle have two wyfys, and som men thre,

In store.

Som ar wo that has any;

Bot so far can I,

Wo is hym that has many,

For he felys sore.

Bot yong men of wowyng, for God that you boght,

Be welle war of wedyng, and thynk in youre thoght

Had I wyst' is a thyng it servys of noght; Mekylle stylle mowrnyng has wedyng home broght And grefys,

With many a sharp showre,

For thou may cache in an owre

That shalle savour fulle sowre

As long as thou lyffys.

For, as ever red I pystylle, I have oone to my

fere,

As sharp as thystylle, as rugh as a brere,

She is browyd lyke a brystylle, with a sowre,

ten, chere;

lo

Had she oones wett hyr whystyll she couth syng fulle clere

Hyr pater noster.

She is as greatt as a whalle,

She has a galon of galle,

By hym that dyed for us alle!

I wald I had ryn to I lost hir.

Primus Pastor. God looke over the raw, fulle defly ye stand.

Secundus Pastor. Yee, the deville in thi maw,

so tariand,

Saghe thou awro of Daw?

Primus Pastor. Yee, on a ley land

Hard I hym blaw, he commys here at hand,
Not far;

Stand stylle.

Secundus Pastor. Qwhy?

Primus Pastor. For he commys hope I.
Secundus Pastor. He wylle make us both a ly
Bot if we be war.

Tercius Pastor. Crystes crosse me spede and
Sant Nycholas,

Ther of had I nede, it is wars then it was.
Whoso couthe take hede, and lett the warld pas,
It is ever in drede and brekylle as glas,
And slythys.

This warld fowre never so,
With mervels mo and mo,

Now in weylle, now in wo,

And alle thyng wrythys.

Was never syn Noe floode sich floodes seyn,
Wyndes and ranye so rude, and stormes so keyn,
Som stamerd, som stod in dowte, as I weyn,
Now God turne alle to good, I say as I mene,
For ponder.

These floodes so thay drowne,
Both in feyldes and in towne,
And berys alle downe,

And that is a wonder.

We that walk on the nyghtys oure catelle to kepe,
We se sodan syghtes when othere men slepe.
Yet me thynk my hart lyghtes, I se shrewys pepe,
Ye ar two alle wyghtes, I wylle gyf my shepe

A turne.

Bot fulle ylle have I ment,

As I walk on this bent,

I may lyghtly repent,
My toes if I

spurne.

A, sir, God you save, and master myne!

A drynk fayn wold I have and somwhat to dyne. Primus Pastor. Crystes curs, my knave, thou art a ledyr hyne.

Secundus Pastor. What, the boy lyst rave, abyde unto syne