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I love to drink by my own warm hearth, Nourisht with logs from the pine-clad heights, Which were hewn in the blaze of the summer sun To treasure his rays for the winter nights On the hearth where my grandam spun. I love to drink of the grape I press, And to drink with a friend of yore; Quick! bring me a bough from the myrtle tree Which is budding afresh by Nicander's door.
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