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Our sighs are then but vernal air;
But April drops our tears,
Which swiftly passing, all grows fair,
Whilst beauty compensates our care,
And youth each vapour clears.
But O! too soon alas, we climb;
Scarce feeling we ascend
The gently-rising hill of Time,
From whence with grief we see that prime,
And all its sweetness end. 20
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C 2
19
