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XLVII.

Cel.
Sometimes the wisest lack a poor man's rede.
Reason and cunning wit oft flee away.
Then, lord, now let me say, with homaged dread,
(Beneath your feet y-laid), my counsel say.
If thus we let the matter idle lay,

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The foemen, every moment, gain a foot.
My lord, now let the spearmen, dight for fray,
And all the booted soldiers go about.
I speak, my lord, but only to uprise
Your wit from marvel, and the warrior to alyse.