(Thomas Moore)

From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 18

Now the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunnd by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire.
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them oer my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart?
Can brimming bowl, or flowerets dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?

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