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Those tempting lips of scarlet glow,
Why pout with fond, bewitching art?
For to those lips, NeƦra! know,
My lips shall not one kiss impart.


Perhaps you'd have me greatly prize,
Hard-hearted fair! your precious kiss;
But learn, proud mortal! I despise
Such cold, such unimpassioned bliss.


Think'st thou I calmly feel the flame
That all my rending bosom fires?
And patient bear, thro' all my frame,
The pangs of unallay'd desires?


Ah! no;--but turn not thus aside
Those tempting lips, of scarlet glow!
Nor yet avert, with angry pride,
Those eyes, from whence such raptures flow!


Forgive the past, sweet-natur'd maid!
My kisses, love! are all thy own;
Then let my lips o'er thine be laid,
O'er thine! more soft than softest down!