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Three things especially please me, but the price
of my desire for them is scarcely met: that is to say a woman, taverns, dice; it is on these my heart is gladly set. But rare's the pleasure, hardly does suffice; because I have no money I forget, and then remembering, I turn to ice, desire lost, and poverty my fret. And I cry, 'May he dangle from a lance!' of my own father, who keeps me so thin, I'm called back, without lures, even from France. At Easter-time, when stinginess is sin, I wait upon his alms on the long chance - I'm buzzard, he's the crane - I take him in. Cecco Angiolieri |
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