ANACREON. ODE XXII.

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Bathyllus, in yonder lone grove
All carelessly let us recline:
To shade us the branches above
Their leaf-waving tendrils combine;
While a streamlet inviting repose
Soft murmuring wanders away,
And gales warble wild through the boughs:
Who there would not pass the sweet day?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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