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This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say, |
| With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete, |
1130 | To Engelond been they come the righte way, |
| Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete. |
| But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete, |
| Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde; |
| Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde. |
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| This King Alla, when came the proper day, |
| With his Constance, his saintly wife so sweet, |
1130 | To England went again, by the straight way, |
| Where they did live in joy and quiet meet. |
| But little while it lasts us, thus complete. |
| Joy of this world, for time will not abide; |
| From day to day it changes as the tide. |
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