The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,
Al this mene I by love, that my feling
5
Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.
For al be that I knowe not love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
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Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede