For fals Arcite, that did hir al this tene?
She wepeth, waileth, swowneth pitously,
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To grounde deed she falleth as a stoon;
Al crampissheth hir limes crokedly,
She speketh as hir wit were al agoon;
Other colour then asshen hath she noon,
Noon other word she speketh moche or lyte,
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But 'mercy, cruel herte myn, Arcite!'