| The Beggar's Complaint |
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| Now hid from sight are great Mount Fusi's fires |
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| A Show'r, and skill of every sort |
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| No Tidings |
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| I ask'd my soul where springs th' ill-omened seed |
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| The Blossoms say, "We hate the folks" |
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| Love Is All |
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| So close thy friendly roof, so near the spring |
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| They blossom forth, and so I gaze |
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| Parted by the Stream |
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