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THINE to stroll in park and garden,

Mine to roam the streets forlorn;

Thine the feast, the sport, the laughter,

Mine in solitude to mourn.

Thine the rule and Thine the lordship,

Mine to toil in serfdom sore;

Thine the pomp of rich apparel,

Mine to beg from door to door.

Thine the sword that slays and spares not,

Mine the smarting of despair;

Mine the brand of idol-worship,

Thine the dogma and the prayer.

As Thou wilt, so deal Thou with me;

All in silence I will bear.

Well I know that Beauty’s captive

Must eternal fetters wear.