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Þe wikked gost was ful ȝare
And ȝaf þe gode mon onsware:
“Þow spekest,” he seide, “of louyng,
Þat mon schulde furst of alle þing;
Þat loue god schal eueri mon,
And siþen his neihȝebor, as he con.
Bote hou miȝtest þou trewe loue
Haue to him þat is aboue,
Whon he so ofte wraþþeþ þe
And let þe in muche myschef be?
He let þi catel from þe falle,
Hors in stable and Oxe in stalle,
And oþer þing awey let go,
And suffreþ þe be brouȝt in muche wo.
Ȝif þou art sek in syde and Ribbe,
Þat vnneþes maiȝt þou libbe,
Or þin hed sore akeþ
And al þi bodi for serwe quakeþ,
Þorw him þe comeþ al þis.
Loue him not, I rede, I-wis!
Hou miȝtest þou loue him wiþ skile
Þat miȝte þe helpe and ne wile?”