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THE COQUETTE

Yearn thou may’st:

Thou shalt not see

My wasting love

For thee.

Lean thy tress;

Fair, fair that fruit;

Slim as warbling bird's

Thy throat.

Peep thou then:

Doubt not some swain

Will of thy still decoy

Be fain.

But I? In sooth—

Nay, gaze thy fill!

Scorn thee I must,

And will. 15