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, he is fair, yet not indeed so fair As thou transfigurest him In thine own eyes, clear as the morning air.

Ay, he is strong and lithe, yet not in truth As thou rememberest him, 'Tis the intoxication of thy youth!

Mistress of mine, for once let truth be told, These lovers are less lovely than they seem, 'Tis love, who subtly turns their brass to gold With the alluring magic of a dream."

Thy chatter, girl, is like a nest of jays! Disturb me not with jangling coffee trays! Reclose the lattice and shut out the light I have no haste to end the peace of night.

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