| Hilarious my heart is with wine And still I proclaim it on high |
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| Come, for Hope's fortress-base Unstable as the sea is |
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| My way, like the breeze, To the Loved One's abode I will make |
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| O happy his heart is that after The lusts of the eye goeth not |
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| My heart of thy lip desire fore'er hath |
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| From the lasso of thy tress-tip Is deliverance for none |
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| Come, Soufi, off for ever Fraud's patchcoat pied draw we! |
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| Ballad of Ladies' Love, Number Two |
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| In the bigot seeming-holy Knowledge of our state is not |
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| Since into the hand of the breeze the end Of thy tress again hath fallen |
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