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XLVIII

[What nedeth these thretning wordes and wasted wynde?]

What nedeth these thretning wordes and wasted wynde?
All this cannot make me restore my pray.
To robbe your good, I wis, is not my mynde,
Nor causeles your faire hand did I display.
Let love be judge, or els whome next we meit,
That may boeth here what you and I can say.
She toke from me an hert and I a glove from her:
Let vs se nowe, if th'one be wourth th'othre.