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Dame Rethoryke moder of eloquence Moost elegaunt moost pure and gloryous With lust delyte, blysse, honour and reverence Within her parlour fresshe and precyous Was set a quene, whose speche delycyous Her audytours gan to all Joye converte Eche worde of her myght ravysshe every herte.
"That ever his soule be in blysse, He holpe me out of my tene; Ne had not be his kyndenesse, Beggers had we ben." The story wanders on, through pages of verse like the above, but we may fitly end it with a page of prose. The old singers are somewhat prolix; it behooves us to be brief. A twelvemonth passed. The day fixed by the knight to repay his friend of the merry greenwood came.
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