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My heart has beat
a thousand time, a space of minutes
on tomorrow’s eve – this night.

Jealous Amor, will I see him
tonight? Who inited that beast
with that ignoble heart.
The one whose presence
instant one knows.

Or shall my dancing companion
be one of Lust?
The girl with the eyes,
so large, no room for a heart.
To see her dance one could
assume so pure – but after
the midnight gong he ride
turns wicked, her ribbons down
twirl.

Shall I dine tonight with Monsieur
Grá? The one whose fluent tongue
entraps the public all?
Stare through candle light,
darling guest of the ball.
Who intervenes all the guests,
who urges mother to pull up
daughters’ shawls.
That feeds the embers of jealous rage,
The one whose wand turns men’s whispered
to quiet rage.

He’s great friends to all mentioned above,
though oft times, slandered
as well as by all.

If he sit across dining table,
I’ll treat him truly, and
honour him above all.

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