mynde on thy servaunt; and thinke on his disese, how lightles he
liveth, sithe the bemes brennende in love of thyn eyen are so
bewent, that worldes and cloudes atwene us twey wol nat suffre
my thoughtes of hem to be enlumined! Thinke that oon vertue
of a Margarite precious is, amonges many other, the sorouful to
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comforte; yet †whyles that, me sorouful to comforte, is my lust
to have nought els at this tyme, d[r]ede ne deth ne no maner
traveyle hath no power, myn herte so moche to fade, as shulde
to here of a twinkling in your disese! Ah! god forbede that;