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61

EX ANTHOL.

TRANSLATION.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

'Twas she—'twas she, the gentle maid,
At eve, beneath the myrtle shade,
Kiss'd me with moist and pulpy lip:—
Ev'n yet that rich, ripe, rapturous kiss,
That balmy breath and nectar'd bliss,
Feast of the Gods! I seem to sip!
Love's honied draughts can never cloy:
But, ah! in storms of passion tost,
Now, now, my madd'ning soul is lost,
Drunk with the mighty joy!