Of Love, that for my trouthe doth me dye.
And when that I, by lengthe of certeyn yeres,
Had ever in oon a tyme sought to speke,
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To Pite ran I, al bespreynt with teres,
To preyen hir on Crueltee me awreke.
But, er I might with any worde out-breke,
Or tellen any of my peynes smerte,
I fond hir deed, and buried in an herte.
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