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Rh

bringest violets in thy hand, Sweet Spring. Thy gifts how vain To soothe us for those fair, blue eyes, That ope no more again.

Thou bringest music of the birds, As if such strain could pay For their melodious speech, who sank From our lone bowers away.

Thou showerest breathing roses round, To blush on beauty's breast; Give back! give back those lips of rose, That to our own were prest.