(Thomas Moore)

From The Odes of Anacreon. Ode 51

Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though youths brilliant flush be thine,
Still Im doomd to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See in yonder flowery braid,
Culld for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lilys snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me.

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