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He bohte us with is holy blod,

what shulde he don us more? He is so meoke, milde, ant good, he nagulte nout ther-fore;

That we han y-don, y rede we reowen sore, Ant crien ever to Jhesu, Crist, thyn ore. Ever ant oo, niht ant day, etc.

He seh his fader so wonder wroht, with mon that wes y-falle,

With herte sor he seide is oht

whe shulde abuggen alle;

His suete sone to hym gon clepe ant calle, Ant preiede he moste deye for us alle. Ever ant oo, etc.

He brohte us alle from the deth, ant dude us frendes dede; Suete Jhesu of Nazareth,

thou do us hevene mede; Upon the rode, why nulle we taken hede, His grene wounde so grimly conne blede. Ever ant oo, etc.

His deope wounden bledeth fast,

of hem we ohte munne;

He hath ous out of helle y-cast,

y-broht us out of sunne;

For love of us his wonges waxeth thunne, His herte blod he 3ef for al monkunne. Ever ant oo, etc.

XLII.

[Fol. 128, ro.]

LUTEL Wot hit anymon,
hou derne love may stonde;
Bote hit were a fre wymmon,

that muche of love had fonde.
The love of hire ne lesteth no wyht longe,
Heo haveth me plyht, ant wyteth me wyth wronge.
Ever ant oo, for my leof icham in grete thohte,
Y thenche on hire that y ne seo nout ofte.

Y wolde nemne hyre to day,

ant y dorste hire munne;

Heo is that feireste may,

of uch ende of hire kunne;

y-wynne.

Ever ant oo, etc.

Bote heo me love, of me heo haves sunne,

Who is him that loveth the love that he ne may ner

A-doun y fel to hire anon,

ant crie, ledy, thyn ore!

Ledy, ha mercy of thy mon!

lef thou no false lore.

zef thou dost, hit wol me reowe sore,

Love dreccheth me that y ne may lyve namore.
Ever ant oo, etc.

I

Mury hit ys in hyre tour,

wyth hatheles ant wyth heowes; So hit is in hyre bour,

with gomenes ant with gleowes;

Bote heo me lovye, sore hit wol me rewe!

Wo is him that loveth the love that ner nul be trewe!

Ever ant oo, etc.

Fayrest fode upo loft,

my gode luef, y the greete,

Ase fele sythe ant oft

as dewes dropes beth weete;

As sterres beth in welkne, ant grases sour ant suete; Whose loveth untrewe, his herte is selde seete.

Ever ant oo, etc.

FINIS.

RICHARDS, PRINTER, 100, ST. MARTIN'S LANE.

THE BOKE OF CURTASYE.

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