I pulled an apple off yon tree
1
But never chanced to bite:
I polish'd it, so dear to me,
I guess'd— nay, knew— the taste to chew;
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It rotted not, nor wrinkled grew,
Yet brilliant hue displays.
Sits veil'd on altar, proudly high,
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Blest fruit of Heaven's majesty:
When Time's complete to human eye
I'll swallow orchard-sprawl'd infinity.