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See the crimson silks unfold, And the slender chains of gold, Like the glittering curls descending, When the bright one’s head is bending; And the radiant locks fall over, Or her mirror or her lover, On which face she likes to dwell, ’Twere a prophet’s task to tell; All those crystal flasks enclose Sighs of the imprisoned rose; And those porcelain urns are filled By sweet Indian wood distilled; And behold those fragrant piles, Spice from the Manilla isles, Nutmegs, cloves, and cinnamon— But our glorious task is done. Little dreamed the merchant’s care Who his precious freight should share— Fill the wine-cup to the brim, Our first health shall be to him.