No More Learning

80
Moult a dur cuer qui en Mai n'aime,

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Whan he may on these           here
The smale briddes singen clere
Hir blisful swete song pitous;
And in this sesoun delytous, 90
Whan love affrayeth alle thing,
Me thoughte a-night, in my sleping,
Right in my bed, ful redily,
That it was by the morowe erly,
And up I roos, and gan me clothe; 95
Anoon I wissh myn hondes bothe;
A sylvre nedle forth I drogh
Out of an aguiler queynt y-nogh,
And gan this nedle threde anon;
For out of toun me list to gon 100
The sowne of briddes for to here,
That on thise busshes singen clere.