Þi brihte palmes· nou I· bere;
Mi schyning scheweþ· þorw þi flour,
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Þi feire fruit· on me ginneþ tere;
Þi fruit me florischeþ· in blod colour
To winne þe world· þat lay in lure;
Þat Blosme Blomed· vp in þi bour,
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Ac not for þe· al-one;
But for to winne· all þis world,
Þat swelte· vndur þe deueles swerd:
Þorw feet and hond· God let him gerd,
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To A-mende monnes mone·:
X.
Adam dude· ful huge harmes,
Whon he bot A bite· vndur a bouh,
Wherfore þi sone· haþ sprad his Armes,
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On a treo tyed· wiþ teone I-nouh;
His flesch· is smite wiþ deþes þarmes,
And swelteþ heer-in· a swemly swouh;
His Breste is bored· wiþ deþes swarmes,
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And wiþ his deþ· fro deþ he drouh
Alle· his leoue freondes;
As Ozie spac· in prophecie
And seide—"þi sone seinte Marie,
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His deþ· slouȝ deþ· on Caluarie, [folio 316:2]
Ȝaf lyf· wiþ-outen endes·":
XI.
Þe stipre· þat is vnder þe vyne set
May not bringe· forþ þe grape;
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Þeih þe fruit· on me beo knet,
His scharpe schour· haue I· not schape:
Til grapes· to þe presse beo set
Þer renneþ· no red wyn· in rape;
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