Poem by James Joyce
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Poem by James Joyce

Though I thy Mithridates were,

Framed to defy the poison-dart,

Yet must thou fold me unaware

To know the rapture of thy heart,

And I but render and confess

The malice of thy tenderness.

For elegant and antique phrase,

Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;

Nor have I known a love whose praise

Our piping poets solemnize,

Neither a love where may not be

Ever so little falsity.

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