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Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 12 Sep 2026 3:51 AM | Viewed: 9388 times

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