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MY CHOICE.

Diana's awful chastity

Would make a dozen men like me,

Who dread Actaeon's antlers, flee;

While Hecate is too old.

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III.

But give to me my Yankee maid,

In spotless dimity arrayed,

A flower that blooms in woodland shade,

Which I as gardener tend.

Her breath as pure as morning breeze,

That, jocund, threads the trembling trees;

Her eyes as blue as summer seas

Where summer sunbeams blend.

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