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Oh
did those eyes, instead of fire,  With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,  Love, more than mortal, would be thine
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,  Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,

O
I care not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it, That years of love have been forgot In the fever of a minute: I heed not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you meddle with my fate Who am a passer by
It is...