Incipit Liber Secundus.
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8. In May, that moder is of monthes glade,
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fletinge every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
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Right in the whyte [Bole], it so bitidde
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,