| Oh! |
| 'tis sweet to think, that, where’er we rove
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| We are sure to find something blissful and dear
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| And that, when we’re far from the lips we love
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| We have but to make love to the lips we are near!
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| The heart, like a tendril, accustom’d to cling
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| Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone
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| But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
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| It can twine with itself, and make closely its own
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| Then oh! |
| what pleasure, where’er we rove
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| To be sure to find something still that is dear
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| And to know, when far from the lips we love
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| We have but to make love to the lips we are near
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| 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise
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| To make light of the rest, if the rose isn’t there;
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| And the world’s so rich in resplendent eyes
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| 'Twas a pity to limit one’s love to a pair
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| Love’s wing and the peacock’s are nearly alike
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| They are both of them bright, but they’re changeable too
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| And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike
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| It will tincture Love’s plume with a different hue!
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| Then, oh! |
| what pleasure, where’er we rove
|
| To be sure to find something still that is dear
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| And to know, when far from the lips we love
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| We have but to make love to the lips that are near |