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All round was bliss—Irene felt no change, |
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Save that her passion turn'd idolatry; |
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And, anxious with her lover forth to range, |
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She left her long rich locks luxuriantly |
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To flow around her neck unbraided free— |
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Till wearied of the weight she pull'd a rose, |
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And cross'd it with a bough of jasmine tree, |
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And round them loose her silken tresses throws, |
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Flowing in glossy waves to every breeze that blows. |