  SHE is plain of face, she hath little grace, They say when they speak of me, ’Tis little I care, I am more than fair In the eyes of somebody. She is cold, they say, as a winter’s day, It mattereth not to me, For the glow and heat of my true heart’s beat Is known unto somebody. She holdeth in hand neither gold or land— Ah, the dull eyes cannot see How rich and great is my broad estate In the heart of somebody. |
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