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Like to a fading flower in May, Which Gardner cannot save, So Beauty must, sometime, decay And drop into the grave. Fair Burns, for long the talk and toast Of many a gaudy Beau, That Beauty has forever lost That made each bosom glow. Think, fellow sisters, on her fate! Think, think how short her days! Oh! Think, and, e'er it be too late, Turn from your evil ways. Beneath this cold, green sod lies dead That once bewitching dame That fired Edina's lustful sons, And quench'd their glowing flame.
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