You know the place: then Leave Crete and come to us waiting where the grove is pleasantest, by precincts sacred to you; incense smokes on the altar, cold streams murmur through the apple branches, a young rose thicket shades the ground and quivering leaves pour down deep sleep; in meadows where horses have grown sleek among spring flowers, dill scents the air. Queen! Cyprian! Fill our gold cups with love stirred into clear nectarSourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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