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He rode through the streets of the city
Down from his hill on high
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobble
He rode to a woman's sigh
For she was his secret treasure
She was his shame and his bliss
And a chain and a keep are nothing
Compared to a woman's kiss

For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm
For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman's hands are warm

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