 | Trifles |  |
Song III. The Feast.
Polly, when your lips you join,Lovely ruby lips, to mine;
To the bee the flow'ry field
Such a banquet does not yield;
Not the dewy morning-rose
So much sweetness does inclose;
Not the gods such nectar sip,
As Colin from thy balmy lip:
Kiss me then, with rapture kiss,
We'll surpass the gods in bliss.
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