Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear,
A comforter indeed you're not;
Let me alone I do not fear,
Take home the whistle of your groat:
Was it your own, or Paul's good sword,
When that your courage was so keen,
You was right stout upon my word,
Then would you fain at fishing been;
For at the crowing of the cock,
You did deny your master thrice,
For all your stoutness turn'd a block,
Now flyte no more if you be wife.
⁠Yet at the last the Lord arose,
Environed with angels bright,
And to the wife in haste he goes,
Desir'd her soon pass out of sight.
⁠O Lord, quoth she cause do me right,
But not according to my sin;
Have you not promis'd day and night,
When sinners knock to let them in.
He said thou wrests the scripture wrong,
The night is come, thou spent the day,
In whoredom thou hast lived long,
And to repent thou did'st delay;
Still my commandments thou abus'dst,
And vice committedst busily,
Since now my mercy thou refusd'st,
Go down to hell eternally.
⁠O Lord, my soul doth testify,
That I have spent my life in vain;
Ah! make a wand'ring sheep of me,
And bring me to thy flock again.