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196

If I so fair a gift refuse,

And my ungracious act excuse.

Yet fain would he the garland take,

Whate’er might follow for its sake.

Right fair the chaplet is, quoth he,

But rather I, by far would see,

The clothes in which I stand afire

Than take that which misfortune dire

Most surely must bring down on me;

What shall we say to Jealousy?

I doubt me nowise that she’ll tear

The flowers in fragments off my hair,

And then, foul traitress, will outright

Destroy me, or in cruel spite,

Knowing from whom the prize I got,

Thrust me in closer gaol to rot,

With suffering more severe than e’er

Before hath been my lot to bear.

And if I flee her cruel face,

Where can I find safe hiding-place?

Alas! my foe would soon contrive

To take, and bury me alive,

For many a one with hue and cry

Would follow me persistently—

I’ll not receive it!

Yes, you will,

Yet suffer thence nor blame nor ill.