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Go, o zealot! Never bid me Unto heaven; sooth to say
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No man hath seen thy visage, Though many an one thy spy is
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The Bulbul at dawn To the wind of the East his lament made
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She bore away my heart And hid from me her face made
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Fair ones, thus if use fo charming Still they make
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The Rose is come and best in Spring abideth
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My heart of a gipsy-like charmer, A trickstress, is captive made
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The Festival day to-day is And I've for to-day forecast
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Virtue, piety, observance, Seek from drunken me not. Nay
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Chance to me, at dawn, of drinking Beakers twain of wine hath fallen
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