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OOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,  Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs; And tho' averted now, her charming eyes Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd, Was I deceived?—Ah! surely, nymph divine! That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love; What wonder then those beauteous tints should move, Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine! Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape, Were of a goddessnot a mortal maid; Yet tho' thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade, My heart, my tender heart could not escape; Nor cure for me in time or change be found: The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!