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 That sends you gifts; and with this he was gone. In all this earth there is not such an one For colour and straight stature made so fair. The tender growing gold of his pure hair Was as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame. God called him Holy after his own name; With gold cloth like fire burning he was clad. But for the fair green basket that he had, It was filled up with heavy white and red; Great roses stained still where the first rose bled, Burning at heart for shame their heart withholds: And the sad colour of strong marigolds That have the sun to kiss their lips for love; The flower that Venus' hair is woven of, The colour of fair apples in the sun, Late peaches gathered when the heat was done And the slain air got breath; and after these The fair faint-headed poppies drunk with ease, And heaviness of hollow lilies red. Then cried they all that saw these things, and said It was God's doing, and was marvellous. And in brief while this knight Theophilus Is waxen full of faith, and witnesseth Before the king of God and love and death, For which the king bade hang him presently. A gallows of a goodly piece of tree This Gabalus hath made to hang him on. Forth of this world lo Theophile is gone