,
Why will thou from me go?
On earth is no man mo[342]
That may my mirth amend.

_John._ Comely lady, good and couth,[343]
Fain would I comfort thee;
Me mynnys[344] my master with mouth
Told unto his menyee.[345]
That he should suffer many a pain,
And die upon a tree,
And to the life rise up again,
Upon the third day should it be
Full right;
For thee, my lady sweet,
Stint awhile to greet,[346]
Our bale then will be beat,[347]
As he before has bight.[348]

_Mary._ My sorrow it is so sad,
No solace may me save:
Mourning makes me mad,
No hope of help I have.
I am redeless[349] and afraid
For fear that I should rave,
Nought may make me glad,
Till I be in my grave.
To death my dear is driven,
His robe is all to-riven,[350]
That by me was him given
And shapen with my sides.
These Jews and he have striven
That all the bale he bides.
Alas! my lamb so mild,
Why wilt thou from me go
Among these wolves wild,
That work on thee this woe?
For shame, who may thee shield,
For friends now hast thou foe.
Alas, my comely child,
Why will thou from me go?
Maidens, make your moan,
And weep, ye wives, every one
With me, most sad, in wone[351]
The child that born was best:
My heart is stiff as stone
That for no bale will brest.[352]

_John._ Ah, lady, well wot I,
Thy heart is full of care,
When thou thus openly
Seest thy child thus fare;
Love drives him rathly.
Himself he will not spare,
Us all from bale to buy,
Of bliss that are full bare
For sin;
My dear lady, therefore of mourning look thou blyn.[353]

_Mary._ "Alas!" may ever be my song,
While I may live in leyd,[354]
Methinks now that I live too long,
To see my bairn thus bleed.
Jews work with him all wrong,
Wherefore do they this deed?
Lo, so high have they him hung,
They let[355] for no dread;
Why so?
His foeman he is among.
No friend he has, but foe,
My frely food[356] from me must go
What shall become of me?
Thou art warpyd[357] all in woe,
And spread here on a tree
Full hie;[358]
I mourn, and so may mo[359]
That see this pain on thee.

_John._ Dear lady, well for me
If that I might comfort thee,
For the sorrow that I see
Shears my heart in sunder;
When that I see my master hang
With bitter pains and strong;
Was never wight with[360] wrong
Wrought so mickle wonder.

_Mary._ Alas, death, thou dwellest too long,
Why art thou hid from me?
Who bid thee to my child to gang?[361]
All black thou mak'st his ble;[36