To Cloe. Imitated From Martial.

A poem by Thomas Moore

I could resign that eye of blue.
How e'er its splendor used to thrill me;
And even that cheek of roseate hue,--
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,
However much I've raved about it;
And sweetly as that lip can kiss,
I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learned to fast,
That, sooth my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last,
To--do without you altogether.

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