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T'other day as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did?—I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings. |