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Poem by George Crabbe
View, my fair, the fading flower, Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms, Idle pageant of an hour; Soon shall time its tints devour, And what are then its charms? Early pluck'd, it might produce A remedy to mortal pain, Afford a balmy cordial juice, That might celestial ease diffuse, Nor blossom quite in vain. So 'tis with thee, my Emma fair, If nature's law's unpaid, If thou refuse our vows to hear And steel thy heart to ev'ry pray'r, A cruel frozen maid. But yield, my fair one, yield to love, And joys unnumber'd find, In Cupid's mystic circle move, Eternal raptures thou shalt prove, Which leave no pang behind. G. EBBAAC. Suffolk, Oct. 15, 1772.
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