They sorowen now, and yet have naught the more;
105
The blood is shad, which no man may restore.
The werre is moder of the wronges alle;
It sleeth the preest in holy chirche at masse,
Forlyth the mayde, and doth her flour to falle.
The werre maketh the grete citee lasse,
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And doth the lawe his reules overpasse.
Ther is nothing, wherof mescheef may growe