As doth the braunche that [Zephirus] shaketh,
[And husht were alle in Argon that citee].
[As cold as any frost now wexeth she];
For pite by the herte her streyneth so,
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And dreed of death doth her so moche wo,
[That thryes doun she fil in swiche a were].
She rist her up, and stakereth heer and there,
And on her handes faste loketh she.
'Allas! and shul my handes blody be?