Cuchulain the Girl and the Fool by W.B. Yeats

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THE GIRL.

I am jealous of the looks men turn on you / For all men love your worth; and I must rage / At my own image in the looking-glass / That's so unlike myself that when you praise it / It is as though you praise another, or even / Mock me with praise of my mere opposite; / And when I wake towards morn I dread myself / For the heart cries that what deception wins / My cruelty must keep; and so begone / If you have seen that image and not my worth.

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