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— D. H. Lawrence"And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn."
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound; And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
— William Shakespeare
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Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
— Vladimir Nabokov
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