Þe foule flesche þat haþ agilt,
In þesternesse it schal be pilt".
Eue went fram Adam,
In to þesternesse till þat sche cam;
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And þo sche com to a þester stede,
Niȝt and day in holy hede,
Gret wiþ child, sche duelled þare,
In miche sorwe and michel care.
Þe time neiȝed atte last
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Þat Eue bigan to gret fast:
And hye bigan to gron sore
And seyd: "Louerd, merci, þine ore!
Who may telle Adam mi þouȝt,
In what sorwe þat ich am brouȝt?
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Y no haue messanger non
Þat may on min eirand gon
. . . . .
. . . . .
"& he seyȝe me wiþ his eyȝe,
& seyd: "Adam, þou shalt dye.
Hold þat word in þi þouȝt,
& loke þou forȝete it nouȝt!"
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Þus seyd god almiȝti to me.
Þo com ich in to erþe oȝe,
& liued in trauail & in pine;
& so schulen after al mine;
Til god bicom man in erþe,
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We schul haue penaunce — & wele is werþe:
For ich & þi moder weren at asent
To breke godes comandment.
For we haue him so agilt,
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In our hertes he haþ ypilt
Boþe an euen & a morwe
Sexti woundes of wo & sorwe,
Þat schal doure to alle mi blod".
& wiþ þat word þer Adam stode
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& bigan to wepe sore
& seyd: "merci, lord, þinore!
Lord — yblisced mot þou werþe! —
Wherto was y made of erþe
Swiche pine here to dreye?
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Wer time comen, ich wald dye!"
Of Adames sorwe Eue toke kepe
& bigan bitter to wepe,
& anon in þat ich stounde
Sche kneled adoun on þe grounde
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& bad a bone to swete Jhesus,
Sore wepende, & seyd þus:
"Lord, ich biseche þe,
Adames sorwe put in me!
For al þe sorwe þat he is inne,
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Is for mi gilt & for mi sinne".
Adam hadde rewþe of his wiif,
& was al ful of his liif,
& seyd: "Eue, lat be þi fare,
& fond to bring me out of care!
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Take Seþ in þi compeynie,
& lok þat þou fast heyȝe,
Lade him to paradise to þe ȝate,
& lat him abide þer ate
& let him stonden in þe siȝt:
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& god, þat is ful of miȝt,
For he haþ nouȝt trespast so miche
As haue we, sikerliche,
Þerfore he may þe balder be
To speke wiþ Jhesu Crist, þan we".
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Eue toke Seþ anon,
& dede hem in þe way, to gon.
Toward paradis anon þai go.
& þe fende, þat was her fo,
Com & mett wiþ hem tvaye
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Riȝt amid in þe waye,
& bot Seþ in þe visage:
& afterward a gret stage
In his visage it was ysene,
Where stoden his teþ kene.
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"Allas allas", quaþ Eue þo,
"What icham curssed, & oþer mo,
Þat breken godes comandment!
Now is mi sones visage schent.
Hadde we holden his hest ariȝt,
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Þan hadde þe fende hadde no miȝt
For to touche nouȝt of our blod,
No hadde ydon hem nouȝt bot gode".
To þe fende þo seyd Eue.
"Hou artow so hardi to greue
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Godes creatour þat þurch his grace
Is fourmed after his owhen face?
Me þenke þat þou dost nouȝt riȝt
To wretþe wiþ þe king of miȝt.
Why artow so malicious
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