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Beautiful nymphs who through the river pass,
living in contentment on your own in your mansions built of shimmering stone and upheld by columns made of glass: now, one embroiders lovely trifles as another weaves a cloth of delicate tone; and now, a few of you go off alone, each telling of the life and loves she has; for a while, put your work aside and lift your golden heads to look at me, and I won't keep you long, I confide; you'll be too sad to listen, or I'll be changed to water crying at your side, and then there will be time for sympathy. Garcilaso de la Vega (1503-1536) (©Mary Rae, 2002). |
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