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Sent Me, from a Lady, with a Rose.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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148

Sent Me, from a Lady, with a Rose.

Whilst these vernal Sweets exhale,
Whilst you bless the Rosy Gale;
Think upon the Giver's State,
Think, and O compare our Fate!
View your Laura, view her Flower,
Smiling Daughters of an Hour!
Sweet's our Beauty, fair our Hue;
Sweet, and fair, at least to you.
When with tender Ardour prest,
We lie blushing on your Breast:
Happy! could we still enjoy;
Happy! could we never cloy:

149

Happy! could we keep our Charms
From, or, ever in those Arms!
But when once those Charms decay,
Both, like Weeds, are thrown away.