Motet
They are little loves that keep me here, and I think of nothing living save the bright face of my lady, ah me! Her comely white throat, her curved chin, her fresh laughing mouth which daily seems to say: “Kiss me, love, kiss me once more!” her neatly shaped nose, and her smiling grey eye—a thief to steal a lover's heart—and her brown twinkling brow, have wounded me with a dart so amorous that I deem it will slay me. Ah God! Alas, who will heal me?
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