Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

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Who made the world I cannot tell 'Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.

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Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose.

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From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I.

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