Of Lancelot du Lake
Tell i no more
But this by leave
These ermytes seven.
But still Kynge Arthur
Lieth there, and Quene Guenever,
As I you newyn.
And Monkes
That are right of lore
Who synge with moulded stewyn
Ihesu, who hath woundes sore,
Grant us the blyss of Heaven.

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