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Fly Not Yet
by Thomas Moore



Fly not yet-'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon!
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing!
O! stay-O! stay-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this tonight, that O! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet! the fount that played,
In times of old, through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like sounds of mirth, began
To burn when night was near;
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winters brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
O stay!-O! stay-
When did morning ever break
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!