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Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigile, |
| Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun |
| And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while; |
585 | And made a yong knyght, that dwelte in that toun, |
| Love hir so hoote of foul affeccioun |
| That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille, |
| But he of hir myghte ones have his wille. |
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| Satan, that ever waits, men to beguile, |
| Saw now, in Constance, all perfection grown, |
| And wondering how to be revenged the while, |
585 | He made a young knight, living in the town, |
| Love her so madly, with foul passion flown, |
| That verily he thought his life should spill, |
| Except that, of her, be once might have his will. |
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