Toward a grove, and the way [gan] take
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Foules to sene, everich chese his make.
And yet I was ful thursty in languisshing;
Myn ague was so fervent in his hete,
Whan Aurora, for drery complayning,
Can distille her cristal teres wete
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Upon the soile, with silver dewe so swete;
For she [ne] durste, for shame, not apere