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"Pray'ee grant me some words from your lips, belike * Such mercy may comfort and cool these eyne: From the stress of my love and my pine for you, * I make light of what makes me despised, indign: Allah guard a folk whose abode was far, * And whose secret I kept in the holiest shrine: Now Fortune in kindness hath favoured me * Thrown on threshold dust of this love o' mine: By me bedded I looked on Budur, whose sun * The moon of my fortunes hath made to shine."
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