To kiss my Celia’s fairer breast, The snow forsakes its native skies, But proving an unwelcome guest, It grieves, dissolves in tears, and dies. Its touch, like mine, but serves to wake Through all her frame a death-like chill,— Its tears, like those I shed, to make That icy bosom colder still. I blame her not; from Celia’s eyes A common fate beholders proved— Each swain, each fair one, weeps and dies,— With envy these, and those with love!
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