And thus I am, for my trouthe, alas!
Murdred and slayn with wordes sharpe and kene,
Giltlees, god wot, of al maner trespas,
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And lye and blede upon this colde grene.
Now mercy, swete! mercy, my lyves quene!
And to your grace of mercy yet I preye,
In your servyse that your man may deye!
But if so be that I shal deye algate,
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