o ever he ail?

_4th Torturer._ For he would tarry us all day,
Of his death to make delay,
I tell you sans fail.

_1st Torturer._ Lift we this tree amongst us all.

_2nd Torturer._ Yea, and let it into the mortise fall
And that shall make him brest.[321]

_3rd Torturer._ Yea, and all to rive him, limb from limb.

_4th Torturer._ And it will break each joint in him;
Let see now, who does best?

_Mary._ Alas, the dole I dree![322] I droop, I go in dread.
Why hang'st thou, son, so high? my woe begins to breed,
All blemished is thy ble,[323] I see thy body bleed,
In the world, my son, we were never so woe, as now in weed.[324]
My food[325] that I have fed,
In life--longing thee led!
Full straight art thou bestead
Among these foemen fell:
Such sorrow for to see.
My dearest child, on thee,
Is more mourning to me
Than any tongue may tell.
Alas! thy holy head
Has not whereon to held[326]
Thy face with blood is red,
Was fair as flower in field;
How should I stand in stead![327]
To see my bairn thus bleed,
Beaten as blo[328] as lead.
And has no limb to wield?
Fastened both hands and feet,
With nalys[329] full unmeet,
His wounds all wringing wet.
Alas, my child, for care!
For all rent is thy hide,
I see on either side
Tears of blood down glide
Over all thy body bare.
Alas that ever I should bide, and see my feyr[330] thus fare!

_John._ Alas, for dule, my lady dear!
All for changed is thy cheer,
To see this prince without a peer,
Thus lapped all in woe;
He was thy food, thy fairest foine,[331]
Thy love, thy like,[332] thy lovesome son,
That high on tree thus hangs alone
With body black and blo,[333] alas!
To me and many mo,[334]
A good master he was.

But, lady, since it is his will
The prophecy to fulfil,
That mankind in sin not spill,[335]
For them to thole[336] the pain;
And with his death ransom to make,
As prophets before of him spake.
I counsel thee, thy grief to slake,
Thy weeping may not gain
In sorrow;
Our boot[337] he buys full bayne,[338]
Us all from bale to borrow.

_Mary._ Alas, thine eyes as crystal clear,
That shone as sun in sight,
That lovely were in lyere[339]
Lost they have their light,
And wax all fa'ed[340] in fear,
All dim then are they dight;
In pain thou hast no peer,
That is withouten pight.[341]
Sweet son, say me thy thought;
What wonders hast thou wrought
To be in pain thus brought
Thy blessed blood to blend?
Ah, son, think on my woe