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1.
NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
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Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; |
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Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd |
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By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; |
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Make not your rosary of yew-berries, |
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Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be |
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Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl |
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A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; |
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For shade to shade will come too drowsily, |
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And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. |
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2.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
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Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, |
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That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, |
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And hides the green hill in an April shroud; |
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Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, |
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Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, |
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Or on the wealth of globed peonies; |
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Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, |
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Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, |
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And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. |
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3.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
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And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips |
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Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, |
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Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: |
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Ay, in the very temple of Delight |
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Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, |
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Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue |
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Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; |
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His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, |
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And be among her cloudy trophies hung. |
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