| James Joyce... |
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O sweetheart, hear you Your lover's tale; A man shall have sorrow When friend him fail. |
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For he shall know then Friends be untrue And a little ashes Their words come to. |
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But one unto him Will softly move And softly woo him In ways of love. |
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His hand is under Her smooth round breast; So he who has sorrow Shall have some rest. |
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