Everyman :
A. C. Cawley

Scene 2

God speketh.
God.
I perceyue, here in my maieste,
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How that all creatures be to me vnkynde,
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Lyuynge without drede in worldly prosperyte.
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Of ghostly syght the people be so blynde,
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Drowned in synne, they know me not for theyr God.
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In worldely ryches is all theyr mynde;
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They fere not my ryghtwysnes, the sharpe rod.
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My lawe that I shewed, whan I for them dyed,
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They forget clene / and shedynge of my blode rede. [signature A.ii]
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I hanged bytwene two theues, it can not be denyed;
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To gete them lyfe I suffred to be deed;
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I heled theyr fete / with thornes hurt was my heed.
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I coude do no more than I dyde, truely;
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And nowe I se the people do clene for-sake me.
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They vse the seuen deedly synnes dampnable,
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As pryde, coueytyse, wrath, and lechery
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Now in the worlde be made commendable;
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And thus they leue of aungelles the heuenly company.
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Euery man lyueth so after his owne pleasure,
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And yet of theyr lyfe they be nothynge sure.
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I se the more that I them forbere
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The worse they be fro yere to yere.
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All that lyueth appayreth faste;
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Therefore I wyll, in all the haste,
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Haue a rekenynge of euery mannes persone;
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For, and I leue the people thus alone
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In theyr lyfe and wycked tempestes,
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Veryly they will become moche worse than beestes,
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For now one wolde by enuy another vp ete;
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Charyte they do all clene forgete.
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I hoped well that euery man
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In my glory sholde make his mansyon,
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And therto I had them all electe;
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But now I se, lyke traytours deiecte,
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They thanke me not for the pleasure that I to them ment,
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Nor yet for theyr beynge that I them haue lent.
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I profered the people grete multytude of mercy,
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And fewe there be that asketh it hertly.
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They be so combred with worldly ryches
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That nedes on them I must do iustyce,
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On euery man lyuynge without fere.
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Where arte thou, Deth, thou myghty messengere?
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