That me so sore halt in every veyne,
I roos anon, and thoghte I wolde goon
Into the wode, to here the briddes singe,
Whan that the misty vapour was agoon
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And clere and faire was the morowning;
The dewe also, lyk silver in shyning
Upon the leves, as any baume swete,
Til fyry Tytan, with his persaunt hete,
Had dryed up the lusty licour newe