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I now knew my fate but too well I was in the hands of Holkar. Strength is deceitful, valor is unavailing, fame is only wind the nightingale sings of the rose all night where is the rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by a frost. The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is that delightful song-bird? Penabekhoda, he is netted, plucked, spitted, and roasted!
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