| But for thee will I to the altar of a white goat |
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| Fool, faint not thou in thy strong heart |
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| And there the bowl of ambrosia was mixed |
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| She called him her son |
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| Then delicately in thick robe I sprang |
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| This is the dust of Timas |
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| To you, fair maids, my mind changes not |
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| And dark-eyed Sleep, child of Night |
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| A Maiden full tender plucking flowers |
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| Me just not the golden-sandalled Dawn |
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