For never, for no wo, ne shal I lette
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To serven hir, how fer so that she wende;
Sey what yow list, my tale is at an ende.'
Right as the fresshe, rede rose newe
Ayen the somer-sonne coloured is,
Right so for shame al wexen gan the hewe
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Of this formel, whan she herde al this;
She neyther answerde 'wel,' ne seyde amis,