The oaks with solemnity shook their heads; The twigs of the birch-trees, in token Of warning, nodded, and I exclaim'd: "Dear Monarch, forgive what I've spoken!"
From the white-blossomed sloe, my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn. No! by Heav'n, I exclaim'd, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
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