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In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were, In habite as an heremite unholy of werkes, Wente wide in this world wondres to here. Ac on a May morwenynge on Malverne hilles Me bifel a ferly, of Fairye me thoghte. I was wery forwandred and wente me to reste Under a brood bank by a bourne syde; And as I lay and lenede and loked on the watres, I slombred into a slepyng, it sweyed so murye. Thanne gan I meten a merveillous swevene-- That I was in a wildernesse, wiste I nevere where. A[c] as I biheeld into the eest an heigh to the sonne, I seigh a tour on a toft trieliche ymaked, A deep dale bynethe, a dongeon therinne, With depe diches and derke and dredfulle of sighte. A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene-- Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh. Somme putten hem to the plough, pleiden ful selde, In settynge and sowynge swonken ful harde, And wonnen that thise wastours with glotonye dest . . .
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