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Rh Whose fame by pen for to discriue, Doth passe ech wight that is aliue: Then how dare I with boldned face, Presume to craue or wish your grace? And thus amazed as I stand, Not feeling sense, nor moouing hand.

My soule with silence moouing sense, Doth wish of God with reuerence, Long life, and vertue you possesse: To match those gifts of worthinesse, And loue and pitie may be spide, To be your chief and onely guide.

Aid, wil you marie? I pray sir tarie, I am not disposed to wed a: For he yat shal haue me, wil neuer deny me he shal haue my maidenhed a. Why then you wil not wed me? No sure sir I haue sped me, You must go seeke some other wight, That better may your heart delight. For I am sped I tell you true, beleue me it greues me, I may not haue you, To wed you and bed you as a woman shold be

For if I could, be sure I would, consent to your desire: I would not doubt, to bring about ech thing you would require: But promise now is made, Which cannot be staide: It is a womans honestie, To keep her promise faithfully. And so I do meane til death to do, Consider and gather, that this is true: Choose it, and vse it, the honester you.