To his Coy One by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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SEEST thou yon smiling Orange? Upon the tree still hangs it; Already March bath vanish'd, And new-born flow'rs are shooting. I draw nigh to the tree then, And there I say: Oh Orange, Thou ripe and juicy Orange, Thou sweet and luscious Orange, I shake the tree, I shake it, Oh fall into my lap!

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