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When the nightengale singes, the wodes waxes grene, Lef, and gras, and blosme, springeth in April I wene, And love is to myne herte gone with one speare so kene. Night and day my blood hyt drynkes, mine herte deth me fane. MSS. Hail. Quoted by Warton.
And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seeke, Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, The teares run downe her cheeke. Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, Even as a mault-worme sholde, And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte Of this jolly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.
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