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But mind, my friend,
I do not send,
A kiss to you,
To grant a beau
Such gifts, you know
Would never do.
Now John, farewell,
For truth to tell,
To eat and doze,
So takes my time
I scarce can rhyme
Or write in prose.
Baby of six months old, to her neighbour on his second birth-day.
The rolling earth
Your day of birth,
Brings fair and fleeting,
