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The New Aspasia

If I have given myself to you, and you,
And if these pale hands are not virginal,
Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,
What matters it? I do not stand nor fall
By your old foolish judgments of desire:
If this were Helen's way it is not mine;
I bring you Beauty, but no Troys to fire:
The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.
You, so sudden snared of brows and breasts,
Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair.

My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:
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