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And look to yonder palace, With its garden of the rose, With its groves and silver fountains, Fit for a king's repose.

There is weeping in that city, And a cry of woe and shame, There's a whisper of dishonour, And that whisper is thy name.

And the stranger's feast is spread, But it is no feast of thine; In thine own halls accursed lips Drain the forbidden wine.