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Oft do I sit by thee at ease,And weave a web of similies,Loose types of Things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising:And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blame,As is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.
A Nun demure of lowly port,Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations:A Queen in crown of rubies drest,A Starveling in a scanty vest,Are all, as seem to suit thee best,Thy appellations.
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