desyre, my joye, my goodnesse, endure in this contrarious prison,
that thinke every hour in the day an hundred winter? Wel may
now Eve sayn to me, 'Adam, in sorowe fallen from welth, driven
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art thou out of paradise, with swete thy sustenaunce to beswinke!'
Depe in this pyninge pitte with wo I ligge y-stocked,
with chaynes linked of care and of tene. It is so hye from thens
I lye and the commune erth, there ne is cable in no lande maked,
that might strecche to me, to drawe me in-to blisse; ne steyers
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