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So long you did not sing or touch your lute, We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute. But when your playing and your voice came in, 'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

As lately I a garland bound, 'Mongst roses I there Cupid found; I took him, put him in my cup, And drunk with wine, I drank him up. Hence then it is that my poor breast Could never since find any rest.

Display thy breasts, my Julia—there let me Behold that circummortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair via lactea. Circummortal, more than mortal.

Fools are they who never know How the times away do go; But for us, who wisely see Where the bounds of black death be, Let's live merrily, and thus Gratify the Genius.