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very lips with honey overflowing,

Which have pour'd out so much of peace and pleasure;

A stream of. light and sweetness, without measure:

To those—to those alone, my pangs are owing.

So to the pilgrim in Arabia's fields;

Perfumes and balsams come—but drawing nigh,

He feels the fierceness of a burning sky,

And faints amidst the odours which it yields.

Her lips are full of manna and of nectar—

Heaven's fragrant breezes play—as to protect her;

And yet she breathes sweet poison, for there sits

Perdition on those lips, in Love's own shape;

And thence he wings his fiery darts in fits,

And he has struck me—how should I escape?