That in my soule I fele it doth me bote.
97. And hardely this wind, that more and more
Thus stoundemele encreseth in my face,
675
Is of my ladyes depe sykes sore.
I preve it thus, for in non othere place
Of al this toun, save onliche in this space,
Fele I no wind that souneth so lyk peyne;
It seyth, "allas! why twinned be we tweyne?"'
680