Ballate
And given hope that’s ta’en in treachery,
Which ere it died aright
Had robbed me of mine hours of delight.
words of mine foredone and full of terror,
Whither it please ye, go forth and proclaim
Grief. Throughout all your wayfare, in your error
Make ye soft clamour of my Lady’s name,
While I downcast and fallen upon shame
Keep scant shields over me,
To whomso runs, death’s colours cover me.
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