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What are lips, but to be kissed?
What are eyes, but to be praised?
What the fineness of a wrist,
What the slimness of a waist?
What the softness of her hair,
If not that Love be tangled there?


What are lips, not to be kissed?
What are eyes, not to be praised?
What is she, that would resist
Love's desire to be embraced?
What her heart, that will not dare
Suffer poor Love to linger there?


These are lips, fond to be kissed,
These are eyes, fain to be praised;
And I think, if Love has missed
Shelter in the wintry waste,
That this heart may soon prepare
Some nook for him to nestle there.