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Purer were her Nazarites than snow, Whiter than milk, ruddier of body than rubies, Of sapphire their form.

Darker than blackness hath been their visage, They have not been known in out-places, Cleaved hath their skin unto their bone, It hath withered -- it hath been as wood.

Better have been the pierced of a sword Than the pierced of famine, For these flow away, pierced through, Without the increase of the field.

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