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XCV

[The painted Apples that adorn]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

The painted Apples that adorn,
Of yon'd fair Tree, the Airy top,
And seems our dull approach to scorn,
From their weak Stalk must one day drop;
And out of reach of Mortals plac't,
Be the vile food of Worms at last;
Thus ends of Humane things the Pride,
Borne down Times ever-flowing Tide.
Thy matchless Beauty, that we all
Now with such heat and passion court,
Though kept from worthy Lovers, shall
Confess its Tyranny but short:
Then do not Love with Anger meet,
Nor cruel be, to seem discreet;
Shunning what nature does intend,
Things seldom meet a nobler end.