| In my bosom's pleasance-chamber Hid an idol fair I hold |
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| Rail not at the topers, zealots Clean-created, rind and core |
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| No day for me, without Thy cheek subright, abideth |
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| The Sage with the shining water of wine His purification maketh |
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| Hand from skirt no more I'll sever Of yon cypress tall and straight |
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| Set the hand within that loveling's Tress of double ply one cannot |
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| What is it that this drunkenness On me of mine hath brought? |
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| Our Book, for this many a year, In pawn for the vinejuice red is |
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| Yon meddler, at me who for love And toping outcry maketh |
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| Unto us the bird of Fortune Yet its way belike shall make |
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