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BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.
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You call us inconstant—you say that we cease
Our homage to pay, at the voice of caprice;
That we dally with hearts till their treasures are ours,
As bees drink the sweets from a cluster of flowers;
For a moment’s refreshment at love’s fountain stay,
Then turn, with a thankless impatience, away.
And think you, indeed, we so cheerfully part