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Ful nygh out of my wit I go.
Inward myn herte I fele blede,
For comfortles the deeth I drede.
Ow I not wel to have distresse,
Whan false, thurgh hir wikkednesse,
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And traitours, that arn envyous,
To noyen me be so coragious?
A, Bialacoil! ful wel I see,