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And God wold graunt me my prayer, A child agene I wold I were! Fore pride in herte, he hatis alle one; Worchip ne reverens kepis he non; Ne he is wroth with no mon — In chareté is alle his chere! He wot never wat is envy; He wol uche mon fard wele him by; He covetis noght unlaufully — Fore cheré stons is his tresoure. In hert he hatis lechori — To here therof he is sory! — He sleth the syn of gloteré, Nother etis ne drynkis bot fore mystere. Slouth he putis away, algate, And wol be besé erlé and late — Al wyckidnes thus he doth hate, The seven dedlé synus al in fere. A gracious lyfe, forsothe, he has — To God ne mon doth no trespas — And I in syn fal, alas, Everé day in the yere! My joy, my myrth is fro me clene — I turne to care, turment, and tene — Ded I wold that I had bene When I was borne, and layd on bere — And God wold graunt me my prayer, A child agene I wold I were!
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