THE COQUETTE
Yearn thou may’st:
Thou shalt not see
My wasting love
For thee.
Lean thy tress;
Fair, fair that fruit;
Slim as warbling bird's
Thy throat.
Peep thou then:
Doubt not some swain
Will of thy still decoy
Be fain.
But I? In sooth—
Nay, gaze thy fill!
Scorn thee I must,
And will.
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