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VII
My song has put
off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would
come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I
have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and
straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
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