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Before I am quite quite sure

That there is one to love me;

Then let come what come may

To a life that has been so sad,

I shall have had my day.

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BIRDS in the high Hall-garden

When twilight was falling,

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,

They were crying and calling.


Where was Maud? in our wood;

And I, who else, was with her,

Gathering woodland lilies,

Myriads blow together.

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I kiss'd her slender hand,

She took the kiss sedately;

Maud is not seventeen,

But she is tall and stately.


I to cry out on pride

Who have won her favour!

O Maud were sure of Heaven

If lowliness could save her.


I know the way she went

Home with her maiden posy,

For her feet have touch'd the meadows

And left the daisies rosy.


Birds in the high Hall-garden

Were crying and calling to her,

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud,

One is come to woo her.


Look, a horse at the door,

And little King Charles is snarling,

Go back, my lord, across the moor,

You are not her darling.



SCORN'D, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn,

Is that a matter to make me fret ?

That a calamity hard to be borne ?

Well, he may live to hate me yet.
Fool that I am to be vext with his pride!

I past him, I was crossing his lands;

He stood on the path a little aside ;

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite,
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white,

And six feet two, as I think, he stands;

But his essences turn'd the live air sick,
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands.

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