Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a facade;
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A serenade siren'd to lure - Zounds! not to court me?
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A menad, yet the sweetest colleen -
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Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.
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Lorelei,
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A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
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Yet who the hell was I to dare?
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Lorelei,
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Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
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Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
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Dedally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade,
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For all years a damndest and driegh'd accolade -
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Caus'd for all eyes mazed to behold a melee;
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In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet:
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The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,
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Bellow'd bidingly by my heart's quailing quire.
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Lorelei,
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A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
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Yet who the hell was I to dare?
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Lorelei,
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Canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
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Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
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Perchance author I thee this ikon'd apologue for aught,
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Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:
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'Tween Aether and 'Nether art thou the peerless phoenix -
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Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.
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Lorelei
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Theatre Of Tragedy |