Withoute mercy, murdred innocence?
Now god, that art of trouthe soverain
And seëst how I lye for trouthe bounde,
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So sore knit in loves fyry chain
Even at the deth, through-girt with many a wounde
That lykly are never for to sounde,
And for my trouthe am dampned to the deeth,
And not abyde, but drawe along the breeth:
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