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[Page 105]

O how the Spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day
Which now shows all the glory of the Sun
And by and by a cloud takes all away

O Say not woman's false as fair
That like the bee she ranges
Still sucking flowers more sweet & rare
As fickle fancy changes
Ah No The love that first can warm
Will leave her bosom never
No second passion ere can charm
She loves – and loves for ever

If she be not fair for me
What care I how fair she be

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