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These withered rendings of brow-wreathing rose;
These shattered cups, where no more foams and flows
Wine's strength; this tress of myrrh-anointed hair;
Lais, from Anaxagoras' despair
Take, laid in dust before thee, emblems fit
Of his desire, and what he had from it.
For, at thy gate with friends much revelling,
No word, no look, no promise could he wring
From thee, and with a curse doth now depart,
Leaving these spoils of broken health and heart.