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 II. 
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LXII. I may seyn, and so mown mo, That in semenaunt goth gyle.
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LXII. I may seyn, and so mown mo,
That in semenaunt goth gyle.

Semenaunt is a wonder thing,
It begylyt bothe knyȝt and kyng,
And makit maydenys of love-longyng;
I warne ȝou of that gyle.
Semenaunt is a sly peyntour,
It florchyt and fadit in many a flour,
And makit wommen to lesyn here bryte colour,
Upon a lytil qwyle.
In semenaunt be thinges thre,
Thowt, speche, and prevyté;
And trewthe xuld the forte be—
It is hens a ml. myle.

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Trewthe is fer and semyt hynde,
Good and wykkyt it haȝt in mynde;
It faryt has a candele ende
That brennit fro half a myle.
Many man fayre to me he spekyt,
And he wyste hym wel bewreke,
He hadde we[l] levere myn hed to-breke,
Than help me over a style.
God that deyid upon the cros,
Ferst he deyid sythin he ros,
Have mercy and peté on us;
We levyn here but a qwyle.