Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that --one is sure to get into some mess before evening.
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And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.
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Pleasure is oft a visitant but pain Clings cruelly to us.
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He from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd With jellies soother thank the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon Mama and dates, in argosy transferrd From Fez and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedard Lebanon.
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I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman -- they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.
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A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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