We were never married, Dido.Cease weeping, let me leave and agreewe both knew real spouses.
Even as the ghost of my precious wife passedthrough my clutching arms like mistI swear on my soul I could taste her.
O the scorch of lost Trojan morningsin our rumpled bed with bread, figsand, yes, honey!
I could taste honeyas if every bee in Troyhad made her phantom its swarming hive.
Of course I will ...
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