Belove' d, what are names but air? Choose thou
whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho,
call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or
Doris, Only, only call
meThine.
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As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, The feather'd snow came softly down, As Jove, descending from his tow'r To court her in a silver show'r. The wanton snow flew to her breast, As little birds into their nest; But o'ercome with whiteness there, For grief dissolv'd into a tear. Thence falling on her garment hem, To deck her, froze into a gem.