And helle, I trow, wille all to-shak;
Alas, what I am wo![519]

_Rybald._ Lymbo is lorn, alas!
Sir Sathanas, com up!
This wark is wars[520] than it was.

_Sathanas._ Yee, hangyd be thou on a cruke;[521]

Thefys, I bad ye shuld be bowne[522]
If he maide mastres[523] more
To dyng[524] that dastard downe,
Sett[525] hym bothe sad and sore.

_Belzabub._ "So sett hym sore" that is sone saide.
Com thou thi self and serve hym so;
We may not abyde his bytter bradye,[526]
He wold us mar and we were mo.[527]

_Sathanas._ Fy, fature![528] wherfore were ye flayd?[529]
Have ye no force to flyt hym fro?
Loke in haste my gere be grayd,[530]
My self shalle to that gadlyng go.[531]

How, thou belamy, abyde,[532]
Withe alle thi boste and beyr,[533]
And telle me in this tyde
What mastres[523] thou makes here.

_Jesus._ I make no mastry bot for myne,
I wille theym save, that shalle the sow,
Thou has no powere theym to pyne,[534]
Bot in my pryson for thare prow[535]

Here have thay sojornyd,--not as thyne,
Bot in thi wayrd,[536] thou wote as how.

_Sathanas._ Why, where has thou hene ay syn[537]
That never wold neghe[538] theym nere e'er now?

_Jesus._ Now is the tyme certan
My Fader ordand herfor,[539]
That they shuld pas fro payn
In blys to dwelle for ever more.

_Sathanas._ Thy fader knew I welle by syght,
He was a wright his meett to wyn,[540]
Mary, me mynnys,[541] thi moder hight,
The utmast ende of alle thy kyn:

Say who made the so mekille[542] of myght?

_Jesus._ Thou wykyd feynde lett be thi dy[n],
My Fader wonnes[543] in heven on hight,
In blys that never more shalle blyn:[544]
I am his oonly son his forward[545] to fulfylle,
Togeder wille we won, in sonder when we wylle.

_Sathanas._ Goddes son! nay, then myght thou be glad
For no catelle thurt the crave;[546]
Bot thou has lyffed ay lyke a lad,
In sorow, and as a sympille[547] knave.

_Jesus._ That was for the hartly[548] luf I had
Unto man's saulle, it for to save,
And for to make thee masyd[549] and mad,
And for that reson rufully to rafe.[550]

My Godhede here I hyd
In Mary, moder myne,
Where it shalle never be kyd[551]
To the, ne none of thyne.[552]

_Sathanas._ How now? this wold I were told in towne,
Thou says God is thi syre;
I shalle the prove by good reson
Thou moyttes[553] as man dos into myre.

To breke thi byddyng they were fulle bowne,[554]
And soon they wroght at my desyre,
From paradise thou putt thym downe,
In helle here