| Rome's brilliant rascal-epigrammatist |
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| More of the Garden than the Portico |
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| Some thirty miles from Megalopolis |
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| That wooing air that wiles the red rose forth |
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| That absolute love which many women feel |
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| Without it, marble-templed cities reaching |
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| With it, the air we breathe intoxicates |
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| Lo, song and sleep I love. For song's susurrus |
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| Anacreon's tettix, singing in the trees |
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| But we have mortal form, material tissue |
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