Come my Laura, come my love;
Come my tender turtle-dove;
Let me from this host retire,
To languish in a softer fire,
How the waving elms invite us!
How the rosy bowers delight us!
How their am'rous foldings twine,
To imitate thy arms and mine!
See these snowy lilies blowing,
With the blushing roses glowing,
Silently the soul inspire,
To kindle at thy lover's fire:
See these springing violets rise,
Animated by thy eyes;
Lavishly their charms they spread,
To make a soft enamelled bed;
And like this downy swelling breast,
They rise, and languish to be pressed.
But O thou happy, happy grove,
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