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Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee; One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both. MARFA. It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he. Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole, The palatine, doth stake his noble daughter On the pure gold of his most righteous cause, And I alone reject him I, his mother?
Like Hsi Tzu's, whose hand ever pressed her heart, jade-like thy soul. When the morn-ushering breeze falls not, thy thousand blossoms grieve. To all thy tears the evening shower addeth another trace. Alone thou lean'st against the coloured rails as if with sense imbued. As heavy-hearted as the fond wife, beating clothes, or her that sadly listens to the flute, thou mark'st the fall of dusk.
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