The Painter
Come, dearest of painters, listen to the singing Muse.
Paint the cities for us, paint in them the many-breathing flutes of Iacchus, the gay, the laughing, the playful Iacchus.
And if the wax be firm enough paint on it the deeds of lovers.
Paint the cities for us, paint in them the many-breathing flutes of Iacchus, the gay, the laughing, the playful Iacchus.
And if the wax be firm enough paint on it the deeds of lovers.
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