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Þe wikkede gost, þer he stood,
Wox for wraþþe wel-neiȝ wood,
ffor he was ouer-comen and be-hynde—
ffor mo onsweres couþe he not fynde.
Þe gode Mon þenne was a-bascht
And lokede on þe wikkede gast
And seide: “now wot I, þow art non
Mon mad of flesch and bon;
I vnderstonde wel be þi spelle
Þat þou art þe deuel of helle.
I þe Comaunde, foule þing,
In þe nome of heuene kyng,
Þat þow me noþing drecche,
But bi-cum now, foule wrecche,
As foul as þou were
In helle wiþ þi feere.”
Ne mihte he no lengure a-byde,
Bote bi-com þo also-tyde
ffoul as helle-Sathanas,
As Blac as eny pich he was—
How foul he was con I not telle,
But foul he stonk as stunch of helle.
Þe gode mon blessed him wiþ þe Crois
And criȝed on God wiþ loud vois,
Bi-fore, be-hynde he blessed him fast,
And Comaundede þat sori gast
ffor to wenden : and so he dude þo,
To þat stude þat he com fro.
Pouwer hedde he no lengore dwelle,
But wente doun riht in to helle.
Þe gode Mon wente hom his way,
And serued god wel to pay,
And þonked him—so ouhte he wel—
Þat him sauede from þe deuel.
Ihesu Crist such grace vs sende
Hym to serue to vre lyues ende,
And kep vs from þe synnes seuene,
And graunt vs alle þe blisse of heuene!