Iâ??m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
Iâ??m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood. ...
How tranquil is this little mountain lake
Itâ??s filled with water like a cup
Bamboo looks just like little houses
And trees above â?? a sea of roofs. ...
What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart?
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant, but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen, if but for pity's sake;
Or, cruel, if thou canst not, let us 'scourse,
And, for one piece of thine, my whole heart take.
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