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The death of Evil-Tongue doth not

Cause unto them much grief, I wot:

For he within the place had made

Few friends, but each in turn betrayed

And slandered to foul Jealousy,

Past master of all falsehood, he.

Not one among the whole of them

Had given a wretched garlick stem

To save his life, except that dame

Perchance, whom I of late did name.

Upon her ear more sweetly fell

His slanders than a chapel bell,

And, her foul wretchedness, delight

Found, when his shalm piped hate and spite.

From her he hid no evil thing,

That he could through long memory bring

To light, if it might mischief do

And foul misfortune thence ensue.

But counted ’mong his worst of crimes

It was, that he would oftentimes

Declare for truth tales false and vile,

The which he would invent the while;

Or add to simple stories true

A fringe, which mean and base he knew,

And thus, confounding wrong with right,

Please Jealousy’s foul appetite,

For of a truth he all his life

Pastured on envy, hate, and strife.

For him no mass was said or sung,

When in the moat his corse was flung,

Nor did his friends his loss deplore,

For when their strength they reckoned o’er,