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TO CHLOE.

HORACE, Book L Ode xxiii.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

YOU shun me, Chloe, like the hind,

Who, lost among the mountain trees,

Its trembling mother seeks to find,

E'en startled by the murmuring breeze.

If the green lizard, gliding by,

Should stir the bush, when spring is near,

Or wind but move the leaves on high,

Your heart would beat aloud with fear.

Not like the Afric lion wild,

Or tiger fierce do I pursue thee;

Ah ! leave thy mother, wanton child,

And suffer me at last to woo thee !

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