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If breeze or bird to this rough steep
Your kind's first seed did bear;
The breeze had better been asleep,
The bird caught in a snare:
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower ;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.

1.

His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills ;
A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.

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Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.

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* Common Pilewort.

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