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Rh Thou bidd'st thy blooming sweetness blow In thorny paths of pain and wo. But, oh! what joy, when bless'd we rove Through rosy bowers, and dream of love; While bliss on every breeze is borne, To pluck the rose without the thorn; With gentlest touch its leaves to press, And raise it to our soft caress! Oh! thou art still the poet's theme, And thee a welcome guest we deem, To grace our feasts and deck our hair, When Bacchus bids us banish care. E'en Nature does thy beauties prize, She steals thy teints to paint the skies; For rosy-finger'd is the morn With which the crimson veil is drawn. The lovely nymphs we always deck With rosy arms and rosy neck,