Of covetyse, that first our sorwe broghte!
Thise tyraunts putte hem gladly nat in pres,
No wildnesse, ne no busshes for to winne
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Ther poverte is, as seith Diogenes,
Ther as vitaile is eek so skars and thinne
That noght but mast or apples is ther-inne.
But, ther as bagges been and fat vitaile,
Ther wol they gon, and spare for no sinne
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