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Though sweet your offer be,
And happy would our time,
You give nothing unto me
And offer to mine.
You hand me roses by the bed,
Offer posies that will fade,
And though through Spring I would be led
No lasting promises were to be made.
Evening will come after sun,
And Autumn soon as well.
Though no love will have begun,
To play with my heart, I could not tell.

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