Til at the laste the dede sleep hir hente.
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133. And, as she sleep, anoon-right tho hir mette,
How that an egle, fethered whyt as boon,
Under hir brest his longe clawes sette,
And out hir herte he rente, and that a-noon,
And dide his herte in-to hir brest to goon,
930
Of which she nought agroos ne no-thing smerte,
And forth he fleigh, with herte left for herte.