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- Why like a tender girl dost thou complain!
That strives to reach the mother's breast in vain;
Mourns by her side, her knees embraces fast,
Hangs on her robes, and interrupts her haste;
Yet, when with fondness to her arms she's rais'd,
Still mourns and weeps, and will not be appeas'd!
- For malice will with joy the lie receive,
Report, and what it wishes true, believe.
- The Second Book of Ovid's Art of Love, lines 706–707.