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H, Chloe! no more at each party and ball
 * You shine the gay queen of the hour,

The lip, that alluringly smiled upon all,
 * Finds none to acknowledge its power;

No longer the hearts of the dandies you break,
 * No poet adores you in numbers;

No billets-doux sweeten, nor serenades wake
 * The peaceful repose of your slumbers.

Dissipation has clouded those eloquent eyes,
 * That sparkled like gems of the ocean;

Thy bosom is fair—but its billowy rise
 * Awakens no kindred commotion:

And pale are those rubies of rapture, where Love
 * Had showered his sweetest of blisses;

And the wrinkles which Time has implanted above,
 * Are covered in vain with false tresses.

The autumn is on thee—fell Scandal prepares
 * To hasten the wane of thy glory;