The taill how this foirsaid tod maid his confessioun to freir volf Vaitskaith
Leif we this vedow glaid i zow assure,
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Off chantecleir, mair blyith than i can tell.
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And speik we off the fatal auenture.
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And destenie that to this foxe befell,
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Quhilk durst na mair with miching intermell,
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Als lang as leme or licht wes off the day,
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Bot bydand nicht full styll lurkand he lay.
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Quhill that thetes the goddes off the flude,
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Phebus had callit to the harbery.
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And hesperous put of his cluddie hude,
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Schawand his lustie visage in the sky.
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Than lourence luikit vp, quhair he couth ly,
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And kest his hand vpon his ee on hicht,
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Merie and glade that cummit wes the nicht.
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