'What?' quod he, 'what may thee eylen now?
It thinketh me, I singe as wel as thou,
For my song is bothe trewe and playn;
Al-though I can not crakel so in vayn
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As thou dost in thy throte, I wot never how.
And every wight may understande me;
But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee;
For thou hast many a nyce queinte cry.
I have herd thee seyn, "ocy! ocy!"