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Like a knyght on restive horse

sometymes we are ruled by love.

Harts are caskets you can't force,

only angels from above.

But the fate of our man

spake of death and blood to spill

he was doubtless, couden't plan

who the kyng should have to kyll.

(M & T: Forme)

"There's something in the forest

  fog hides everything 'round here

  Crows are silent the owl seems sleeping

  as sleeping seems the moon in the sky..."