FastSaying
Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
William Shakespeare
Lapwings
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The false lapwynge, full of trecherye.
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Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
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Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god, He made the barren waste his lone abode, And oft on soaring pinions hover'd o'er The lofty palace then his own no more.
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
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