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When Daphne from fair Phoebus did fly
The west wind most sweetly did
blow in her face
Her silken scarf scarce shadowed her eyes
God cried, O pity! and held her in chace
Stay, Nymph, stay, Nymph,
cries Apollo, tarry and turn thee, Sweet Nymph, stay
Lion nor Tiger
doth thee follow, turn thy fair eyes, and look this way
O turn, O
pretty sweet, and let our red lips meet
O pity me, Daphne, pity me,
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