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Epigrams 2
Torture me not with this or that or this,
Love is my master,
you his lesser self;
while you are Love,
I love you generously,
be Eros,
not a tyrannous, bitter mate:
Love has no charm
when Love is swept to earth:
you’d make a lop-winged god,
frozen and contrite,
of god up-darting,
winged for passionate flight.