But ye lovers, that lye in any drede,
Fleëth, lest wikked tonges yow espye;
Lo! yond the sonne, the candel of Ielosye!
With teres blewe, and with a wounded herte
Taketh your leve; and, with seynt Iohn to borow,
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Apeseth somwhat of your sorowes smerte,
Tyme cometh eft, that cese shal your sorow;
The glade night is worth an hevy morow!'—
(Seynte Valentyne! a foul thus herde I singe