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Poem by George Etherege
To a Lady Asking Him How Long He Would Love Her
IT is not, Celia, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour May lose those joys we now do taste; The Blessèd, that immortal be, From change in love are only free. Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny To live because weТre sure to die?
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