By William Congreve (1670-1729).
See, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes!
And now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united, day they give, 5
But different fates ere night fulfil;
How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!
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