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Rh  Thy vest I'd be, to guard with care Those heaving breasts, and nestle there. Oh! would I were a limpid wave, Thy soft and beauteous limbs to lave; Thy perfumed oil, that I might share The glory of thy golden hair! Or, dearer still, that slender zone, Which makes thy beauties all its own: Thy pearly chain, that shines so fair, But cannot with thy neck compare: Thy very sandal I would be, To kiss the foot that trod on me!

, maidens, bring a well-mix'd bowl, And let me slake my thirsty soul; For, scorch'd beneath this sultry sky, My spirits sink—I faint—I die. This garland, late so fresh and fair, I twined amid my curling hair; But all its faded flow'rets now Have wither'd on my burning brow. Bring fresher wreaths my head to shade; Bring others still when those shall fade. But, oh! what ease can wine impart When love's fierce flame consumes the heart?