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A Year of Poetry – Day 146

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, and ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
Green groweth  .  .  .  etc.

As the holly groweth green,
With ivy all alone,
When flowerys cannot be seen
And green-wood leaves be gone,
ut supra

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make:
From all other only
To her I me betake.
ut supra

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my specïal,
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly. 

— King Henry VIII, Green Groweth the Holly

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