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Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured,Thus adorn'd, am proudly wand'ring,See! yon wantons are entwining,Void of strife, with secret ardour,Other nets, each fine and finer,Threads of twilight interweaving,Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.

And gazed on the summit so steep.

Now no roses pluck. for thee,Though 'tis springtime, Fanny mine,