O mark yon Rose-tree! When the West Breathes on her with too warm a zest, She turns her cheek away; Yet if one moment he refrain, She turns her cheek to him again, And woos him still to stay! Is she not like a maiden coy Press'd by some amorous-breathing boy? Tho' coy, she courts him too, Winding away her slender form, She will not have him woo so warm, And yet will have him woo!
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