| So little of what we observe, is the girl herself
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| Elaborate, scented coiffers
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| Adieu d’amour
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| Vast is the heirs ballroom
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| Let the rich give you presents
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| Heaven pours from her throat, as she sings and as she dances
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| The fumes of rich swine, honeyglazed and dripping, playing in the air
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| My mouth eager and wishing
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| But I return to this nightingale
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| Her hair all fiery red
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| Deep it is and wild
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| My weakness will be fed
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| Boys whipped on the the Altar of Diana, sometimes until they died
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| The cunning wily merchant, and his four crippled horses
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| Tales told in warlike manner
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| The storyteller by the fire
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| While musing deeply on this sight, the songster stirred my desire
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| You are sweet and fine to listen to
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| Long tresses about her neck
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| Yet much is false
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| This mighty evening, I’ve seen no face
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| This is crushing me
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| My quill it aches
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| Turn loose the swans that drew my poets craft
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| I’ll dwell in desolate cities
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| You burned my wings
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| I leave this ode, splendid victorious through the carnage
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| I wanted to touch them all
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| I wanted to touch them all |