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Than spak the mother of pyte,
Lo the Lordys handmayde I am,
Aftꝛ thi woorde be do to me;
And at that poynt God bycome man.
Than roos that blissyd mayde Marye,
And gede up to the hillys with hasty breeth
Unty the hows of Zakarye,
And salewed ther Elizabeth.
And whan Elizabeth dide her
The gretyng of that lady swete,
Hir childe Seynt John glad cher than made
With inne hir wombe there as sche sete.
And than, fulfilled of the holy Goost,
Elizabeth bigan to crye
Blessed the art of wymen moost
So is the fruyt of thi bodye.
And how is this, that thus to me
Cometh the mothir of my Lord,
To make my childe so welcome thee
As voys dothe voys in gode acorde?
And blessyd be thou in feith so trewe,
For what is seyde from God to thee,
By p̄phets alle bothe olde and newe,
Now is fulfilled, blessyd mote the be.
