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But to yow, hardy knyghtes of renoun,
Syn that ye be of my devisioun,
Al be I not worthy to so gret a name,
Yet, seyn these clerkes, I am your patroun;
Therfore ye oghte have som compassioun
Of my disese, and take hit not a-game.
The proudest of yow may be mad ful tame;
Wherfore I prey yow of your gentilesse
That ye compleyne for myn hevynesse.
And ye, my ladyes, that ben true and stable,
Be wey of kynde, ye oughten to be able
To have pite of folk that be in peyne.
Now have ye cause to clothe yow in sable,
Sith that youre emperise, the honurable,
Is desolat; wel oghte ye to pleyne.
Now shulde your holy teres falle and reyne.
Alas, your honour and your emperise,
Negh ded for drede ne can her not chevise!
Compleyneth eke, ye lovers, al in-fere,
For her that with unfeyned humble chere
Was evere redy to do yow socour;
Compleyneth her that evere hath had yow dere;
Compleyneth Beaute, Fredom, and Manere;
Compleyneth her that endeth your labour;
Compleyneth thilke ensample of al honour,
That never dide but al gentilesse;
Kytheth therfore on her sum kyndenesse.