Hail, Cristin Knycht! Haill, etern confortour!
Haill, Riall King, in trone celistiall!
Haill, Lampe of Licht! Haill, Jhesu Saluitour,
In Hevin empire Prince perpetuall!
Haill, in distres Protectour principall!
Haill, god and man, borne of a virgin cleyne!
Haill, boist of balme, spilit within my splene!
Haill, in my Hert with Lufe wippit Intern!
Haill, spice of taist, to heir sueit sympheony!
Haill, silk to graipe, to sicht rycht lycht in dern,
To feit futebrode! Haill, gide to gude herbry!
Haill, dern closit till woundit and very!
Haill, bed till rest! Haill, saulis habitakill!
Haill, beyme to skaill of ded þe dirk vmbrakill!
In till oure Hert, quhill þou art herbriour,
We ar wiser þan wes King Salomone;
Throu spirituall pith moir potent protectour,
Stranger þan Hectour, Judas, or Sampson;
Farar be fer þan ever wes Absalon;
Richer in grace þan Alexander þe Gret;
Waldin as wynd, be grace eth for to tret.
Fra þou disluge for our iniquite,
We ar waker þan ever wes Fermilus,
Quhilk wes all mait, be gret infirmite;
Als lazar than ever wes Lazarus;
As struttioun stif, as tigar tiranus;
Mair pure of gude þan wes Diogynes;
Wilder in wit than Nabell Carnales.
Thus to þe saule sen life is presence,
Off the is gude to haue possessioun;
Quhilk may nocht be bot with deligence
Baith nycht and day remember þi passioun;
And of þi glore sall haue fruicioun
Bot he þat studyis heirefter his estait,
Thy cruell deid with piete to regrait.
But now, allace! men ar mair studyus
To reid the Seige of þe toun of Tire,
The Life of Tursalem, or Hector, or Troylus,
The vanite of Alexanderis empire;
Bot quhen þe warld sall all birn in a fire,
Than wane storyis sall mak na remeid,
Bot all thair helpe man cum þrou Cristis deid.
Bot sen our natour is of sic a kind,
That euer it seikis consolacioun,
He is maist wise þat dalie hes in mynd,
Himself to keip in occupacioun;
Quhairon þe spirit hes delectacioun,
Profit to þe saule, his God worschip and dreid,
Confort þe hert, but lesing of his meid.
Bot sen mony in will ar rycht mychty,
Quhilk in deid ar pure be Ignorance,
Throu helpe of Him quhilk deit on þe tre,
In inglis toung I think to mak remembrance
How God maid man; how man fell throu myschance;
Syne, how greit pyne sustenit for his synne
The Sone of God, or he wald succour him.
In process I think als coumonly
For till exclud all curiosite,
Maist plane termes with deligence to spy,
Quhilk may be tane with small deficulte;
Bot gif me causs instant necessitie
Termes to find, quhilk hes na ganand sound,
That þaim till hide, the better wald confound.
Be naturall gift nane to þe end may bring
Gude purpois tane, bot him gid with grace,
In quhilk of natour hes sober conforting,
The help of him in caussis in þis caiss;
Quhilk for my saule þe bitter deid can bras
Apoun þe croce, in price of his ransoun;
Sa, in þis hope, my purpois now I foune.

EXPLICIT PROLOGUS.