F.W. Bourdillion:
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day has but one;
Yet the light of the bright world die's,
With the dying sun.
Thomas Campton:
There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow,
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow,
There Cherries grow, which none may buy,
Till 'cherry ripe' themselves cry;
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