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Of his loue that pricked her finger with a nedle.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Of his loue that pricked her finger with a nedle.

She sat, and sowed: that hath done me the wrong:
Wherof I plain, and haue done many a day:
And, whilst she herd my plaint, in piteous song:


She wisht my hart the samplar, that it lay.
The blinde maister, whom I haue serued so long:
Grudgyng to heare, that he did heare her say:
Made her owne weapon do her finger blede:
To fele, if pricking wer so good in dede.