Ther saw I eek the fresshe hawëthorn
In whyte motlè, that so swote doth smelle,
Ash, firre, and ook, with many a yong acorn,
And many a tree—mo than I can telle;
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And, me beforn, I saw a litel welle,
That had his cours, as I gan beholde,
Under an hille, with quikke stremes colde.
The gravel gold, the water pure as glas,
The bankes rounde, the welle envyroning;