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First Line: The fringed vallence of your eyes advance
Last Line: And all those gems the ripening summer yields.


The fringéd vallance of your eyes advance,
Shake off your canopied and downy trance;
Phoebus already quaffs the morning dew,
Each does his daily lease of life renew.

He darts his beams on the lark's mossy house,
And from his quiet tenement does rouse
The little charming and harmonious fowl,
Which sings its lump of body to a soul;
Swiftly it clambers up in the steep air
With warbling throat, and makes each note a stair.

This the solicitous lover straight alarms,
Who too long slumbered in his Celia's arms.
And now the swelling spunges of the night
With aching heads stagger from their delight;
Slovenly tailors to their needles haste;
Already now the moving shops are placed
By those who crop the treasures of the fields,
And all those gems the ripening summer yields.





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