O Lady Kate, my cousin Kate, 
You grew more fair than I: 
He saw you at your father's gate, 
Chose you, and cast me by. 
He watched your steps along the lane, 
Your work among the rye; 
He lifted you from mean estate 
To sit with him on high. 
The neighbours call you good and pure, 
Call me an outcast thing. 
As I sit and howl in dust, 
You sit in gold and sing: 
Now which of us has tenderer heart? 
You had the stronger wing.
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