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the lamentation of the handmaiden
Master, master, what can I serve thee master? Upon thy table place I, my love; and as if a bitter wine, thou sippeth not.
What doth my master desire, if not this comely form I cast before him? Of the brightest sun he drinks, and is content; yet of my beauty he ignores.
I crown his temple with kiss and rue; I lay beneath him the fires of my hair to bathe his feet; I call for him in my sleep, and he doth not answer.
Master, master, what can I serve thee master? Upon thy hands place I, my hands; and as if a dust, thou scatters my love across the sea.
What doth my master desire, if not this slender shadow I cast behind him? Of the darkest night he sleeps, and is content; yet of my love he turns away.
In his tremblings of fear, I comfort him; if in the night he cries out, i go to him, and he turns away.
If not my love, what doth my master desire?
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