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Ye archer: “With a low whistle and an archer’s craft I ’ll fit ye valentine unto this shaft,”
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Ye faire mayde: “‘Tis Percival, my archer love, I wot!”
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“’T was aimed with care, and my love-shaft, I trow, Straight to her hand—and to her heart—will go.”
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“A valentine his trusty bow hath shot!”
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“Gadzooks!” cries Percival. ‘Alack! what ’s up? I ’ve missed ye fair one, and have hit ye pup”
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“A valentine his trusty bow hath shot!”
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“A murrain on my hand and brain so stupid! I ‘ll ne’er again attempt to rival Cupid!”
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Ye ancient dame: “Young lady, to thy turret chamber speed, Whilst I this varlet’s ‘doggerel’ will read!”
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