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THE VIGIL OF VENUS.
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Ah, she sings, but I am tongue-tied! When to me is spring revealed?
When shall I be as the swallow, and my lips no more be sealed?
Lost is all my gift of song; Apollo scorns to look on me!
So, because her lovers' lips were bridled, perished Amyclae.
Tomorn who ne'er hath loved shall love, and who hath loved shall love tomorn.
