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Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now perhaps Amidst that motley rout she plays her part. There will I go; she cannot be conceal'd, For but the flowing of her graceful robe Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it, Tho' in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds,— (looking at his habit.) Which half conceal, and half declare my state, Beneath your kind disguise, O! let me prosper, And boldly take the privilege ye give. Follow her mazy steps, croud by her side; Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline, And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek; Her fair hand seize, yea press it closely too; May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall! This once, O! serve me well, and ever after Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes; Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept; And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye, And gazing wistfully, this night recall, With all its past delights.—But yonder moves A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe; It moves not like the rest—it must be she.

Enter fantastically dressed, with a willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets, and torn letters fluttering round his neck; pursued by a group of masks from one of the inner