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XLV

[What no, perdy, ye may be sure!]

What no, perdy, ye may be sure!
Thinck not to make me to your lure,
With wordes and chere so contrarieng,
Swete and sowre contrewaing;
To much of it were still to endure.
Trouth is trayed where craft is in vre;
But though ye have had my hertes cure,
Trow ye I dote withoute ending?
What no, perdy!
Though that with pain I do procure
For to forgett that ons was pure
Within my hert shall still that thing,
Vnstable, vnsure and wavering,
Be in my mynde withoute recure?
What no, perdye!