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Sunne ne mone schon never so swete As that foysoun flode out of that flet; Swythe hit swange thurgh uch a strete Wythouten fylthe other galle other glet' Kyrk therinne was non yete Chapel ne temple that ever was set: The Almyghty was her mynster mete; The Lombe, the sakerfyse, ther to refet. The yates stoken was never yet, Bot evermore upen at uche a lone; Ther entres non to take reset That beres any spot under mone. The mone may therof aeroche no myghte To spotty ho is, of body to grim, And also ther ne is never nyght What schulde the mone ther compas clym ? And to even wyth that worthly lyght That schynes upon the brokes brym ? The planetes arn in to pover a plyght, And the self sunne ful fer to dym. Aboute that water arn tres ful schym, That twelve frytes of lyf con bere ful sone; Twelve sythes on yer thay beren ful frym, And renowles nwe in uche a mone.
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Sun or moon ne'er shone so sweet As that free flood which swift unwound; Swiftly it rushed through every street No filth or slime in it is found. No church it needs to be complete, Chapels or temples ne'er abound: The Almighty only holds that seat; The Lamb's oblation makes all sound. No gate is ever tightly bound, Each road is open night and noon; None enters there into that ground With any stain beneath the moon. The moon from there can steal no light; Too stained she is, too slatternly, That city never dwelt in night, Why should she make her circuit free To vie with all that splendour bright That shines on streams so splendidly ? Planets are in too poor a plight, The sun itself outshone would be. About that stream is many a tree Twelve fruits of life they bear full soon Twelve times each year the fruit we see, Renewed again with every moon.
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Neither sun nor moon ever shone so sweetly as that copious flow out of that ground; swiftly it rushed through each street without dirt or impurity or slime. Yet there was no church in that place, neither chapel nor temple was ever built: the Almighty was her noble church; the Lamb the sacrifice there for (the soul's) refreshment. The gates had never yet been closed, but always at each was a roadway; none enters there to take refuge who bears any blemish at all (lit., under the moon). The moon can steal no light from there; too imperfect she is, too ugly of body, and also there is never any night there. Why should the moon make her circuit there and vie with that glorious light that shines upon the river's brim ? The planets are in too poor a plight and the sun itself is far too dim. About that water are trees full bright that quickly bear twelve fruits of life; twelve times a year they fruit in abundance, and every month renew themselves.
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