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II.

[Herald]
I, son of honour, 'spenser of her joys,
Must quickly go to give the spears around;
With aventayle and borne I men employ,
Who without me would fall unto the ground.

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So the tall oak the ivy twisteth round,
So the nesh flow'r grows in the woodland shade.
The world by difference is in order found,
Without unlikeness nothing could be made;
As in the bowke naught only can be done,
So in the weal of kind all things are parts of one.