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Her like I never heard all my life.
Thomas then said, you make such din,
When you are out, and meikle din
If you were here, I'll lay my life,
No peace the saints would get within;
It is your trade for to be flyting,
Still in a fever as one raves.
No marvel though you wives be biting,
Your tongues are made of aspen leaves
Thomas quoth she, let be your taunts,
You play the pick thank I perceive,
Though ye be brother to the saints,
An unbelieving heart you have;
Thou brought the Lord unto the grave,
But would no more with him remain,
And wast the last of all the lave,
That did believe he rose again,
There might no doctrine do thee good,
Nor miracles make thee confide,
Till thou beheld Christ's wounds and blood,
And put'st thy hands unto his side;
Didst thou not daily with him bide,
And see the wonders which he wrought
But blest are they who do confide,
And do believe yet saw him not;
Thomas, she says, will you speer,
If that my sister Magdalene,
Will come to me if she be here;
