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 II. 
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 IV. 
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 VII. 
 IX. 
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 XVII. 
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 XLIX. 
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 LXVII. 
 LXIX. 
 LXXII. 
LXXII. Mak ȝe merrie, as ye may, And syng with me, I ȝou pray.
 LXXIV. 
  


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LXXII. Mak ȝe merrie, as ye may,
And syng with me, I ȝou pray.

In Patras ther born he was
The holy buschop seynt Nycholas,
He wyst mekyl of Godes gras,
Throw vertu of the Trinité.
He reysyd thre klerkes fro deth to lyfve,
That wern in salt put ful swythe,
Betwyx a bochere and his wyfve,

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And was hid in privyté.
He maryid thre maydenys of myld mod;
He ȝaf hem gold to here fod;
He turnyd hem fro ille to good,
Throw vertu of the Trynyté.
Another he dede sekyrly,
He savyd a thef that was ful sly,
That stal a swyn out of his sty;
His lyf than savyd he.
God grawt us grace, bothe old and ȝyng,
Hym to serve at his plesyng;
To hevene blysse he us bryng.
Throw vertu of the Trinité.