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Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide, Of all Love's cruelties and Beauty's pride !
T. Slav ley.
Sweetest love ! I do not go For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fairer love to me : But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best Thus to use myself in jest, By feigned death to die.
Donne. " To his Love, on going a Journey."
She spoke and wept: the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears,
And every little circlet where they fell,
Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres
And intertangled lines of light:—a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears
From those departing Forms, o'er the serene
Of the white streams and of the forest green.
Shelley. " Witch of Atlas."
On the door you will not enter,
I have gazed too long—adieu ! Hope withdraws her peradventure— Death is near me,—and not you I Come, O lover, Close and cover These poor eyes, you called, I ween, " Sweetest eyes were ever seen."
Airs. Browning. " Catarina to Camoeus.'
Speak, speak, thou fearful guest 1 Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest.