| "Wrong," quoth I, "is this thou doist; Ill-advised the thing, to wit, is |
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| I for constancy renowned am Of the fair, the candle like |
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| Wail, bulbul, if with me Thy heart to friendship fain is |
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| No true loveling's she who only Waist and hair possesseth |
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| Drinking and mirth in secret, Things without base are they |
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| Ho, parrot, thou Love's mysteries That utt'rest still |
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| The Tongue of the pen refuseth To set forth the bale of sev'rance |
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| Intent, save of oppression, Thou seest, the fair hath not |
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| The Blood of the heart from the eye All over our face passeth |
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| The Wineseller's sins, If the duly the winebibbers' need doth |
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