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Full many I make peccavi cry,

Such mighty privilege have I.

False-Seeming here some rest would take,

But Love desires him not to break

His tale, the which he feigns to heed

With pleasure, and asks further rede.

I pray thee that thou tell to me,

All shame aside, explicitly,

The varied games that thou hast played,

What tricks hast done, what mischief made.

Thy robe declares an anchorite.

That’s true, but I’m a hypocrite.

Thou preachest holy abstinence.

Past doubt; but though I make pretence.

Good dishes love I, and bright wine,

As well as any grave divine.

Thou preachest poverty also.