thus:

This bliss I spere from you right fast; _bar._
Herein come ye no more,
Till a child of a maid be born,
And upon the rood rent and torn,
To save all that ye have forlorn, _lost._
Your wealth for to restore.

Eve laments bitterly, and at length offers her throat to her husband,
praying him to strangle her:

Now stumble we on stalk and stone;
My wit away from me is gone;
Writhe on to my neck-bone
With hardness of thine hand.

Adam replies--not over politely--

Wife, thy wit is not worth a rush;

and goes on to make what excuse for themselves he can in a very simple
and touching manner:

Our hap was hard, our wit was nesche, _soft, weak,_ still in use in
To Paradise when we were brought: [some provinces.
My weeping shall be long fresh;
Short liking shall be long bought. _pleasure._

The scene ends with these words from Eve: