Do not I, Tyme, cause nature to augment? Do not I, Tyme, cause nature to decay? Do not I, Tyme, cause man to be presente? Do not I, Tyme, take his lyfe away? Do not I, Tyme, cause death take his say? Do not I, Tyme, passe his youth and age? Do not I, Tyme, every thynge asswage?
In tyme Troye the cyte was edyfied; By tyme also was the destruccyon; Nothinge without tyme can be fortified; No erthly joye nor tribulacion, Wythout time, is for to suffre passyon; The tyme of erthe was our dystruccyon, And the time of erthe was our redempcion.
Adam of erthe, sone of virginite, And Eve by God of Adam create, These two the worlde dampned in certaynete, By disobedience so foule and vycyate; And all other than frome them generate, Tyll peace and mercy made right to enclyne Out of the Lyon to enter the Vyrgyne.
Lyke as the worlde was distroyed totally By the virgins sone, so it semed well A virgins sone to redeme it pyteously, Whose hye Godheed in the chosen vessell Forty wekes naturally did dwell. Nature wekes naturally dyd good of kynde, In the vyrgyn he dyd suche nature fynde.
Thus wythout nature nature wonderly In a vyrgyn pure openly hath wrought; To the God of nature nothynge truely Impossyble is, for he made of nought Nature fyrst; whyche naturynge hath tought Naturately right naturate to make; Why may not he than the pure nature take
By his Godheed of the vyrgin Mary? His elect mother and arke of testament, Of holy chyrche the blessyd lumynary, After the byrthe of her sone excellent, Virgyn she was, yet alway permanent, Dysnullynge the sectes of false idolatry, And castynge downe the fatall heresy.
Thus whan I, Tyme, in every nacyon Reygne in rest and also in peace; And Octavyan, in hys dominacyon, Throughe the worlde and the peopled preace Letters had sent, his honoure to encreace; Of all the numbre for to be certayne For to abey hym as theyr soverayne:
In whose tyme God toke his nativitie, For to redeme us with his precious bloud, From the devils bonde of great iniquitie: His hart was perst hangyng on the rode; Was not this tyme unto man ryght good? Shall not I, Tyme, evermore abyde, Tyll that in Libra at the dreadfull tyde
Of the daye of dome then in the balaunce, Almyghty God shall be just and egall To every persone withouten doubtaunce, Eche as they dyd deserve in generall, Some to have joye, and some payne eternall, Then I am past, I may no longer be, And after me is dame Eternitie.