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Poem by 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! Sunn’d by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire. Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o’er 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 floweret’s dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?
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