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Thys lytle boke, opprest wyth rudenes Without rethorycke or coloure crafty; Nothinge I am experte in poetry As the monke of Bury, floure of eloquence. And in another place, again addressing Lydgate, he exclaims: O mayster Lydgate, the most dulcet sprynge Of famous rethoryke, wyth balade ryall. The poem records the experiences of Grande Amour, who, accompanied by two greyhounds, seeks knowledge.
Now I looke upon't, With those black patches it does put me in mind Of a white soule with sinns upon't, and frights me. How sell you grapes? Sis. This rudenes Is beyond the manners of a gentleman. Cou. I cannot helpe it, and I hope you thinke so. Sis. I am confirm'd that now I am forsaken, But if your passion have not drownd all reason I pray let us part civilly. Cou. Sis. Whoe's there? Cou.
Y. M. Hell, I will flie no farther; since my hand Is guilt in murder it shall sacrifice Some of my apprehenders. Tho. Whats the matter? Deare Sir, what ayles you? Lady. O my Sonne! I feare. Alex. Stand back, goe to; what meanes this rudenes. I say goe to, keepe back. Con. Sir, we must enter: here he is. I charge you Asist us to lay hold on him. Lady.
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