His ladies councell, and it not unfold;
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Wherfore, the secret when he doth unshit,
Than lyeth he, that all the world may wit.
For falsing so his promise and behest,
I wounder sore he hath such fantasie;
He lakketh wit, I trowe, or is a best,
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That can no bet him-self with reson gy.
By myn advice, Love shal be contrarie