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Et qui done pourrait perde la memoire De ces temps d'aurore et de firmament, De rubans, de fleurs, de gaze et de moire, Ou l'amour begaye un argot charmant? Nos jardins etaient un pot de tulipe; Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon; Je prenais le bol de terre de pipe, Et je te donnais le tasse en japon. Et ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire! Ton manchon brule, ton boa perdu!
A whole bottle of real 'Rosée d'Aurore! I was as careful of it as if it had been gold!" "Never mind, little goose," was Mozart's comforting answer. "This was the only way that your sacred smelling-stuff would do us any good. The air was like an oven here, and all your fanning made it no cooler.