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Rh What say you?

'Tis your fault if I ran risks! Your letters turned my head! Ah! all this month, How many!—and the last one ever bettered

The one that went before! What! for a few

Inconsequent love-letters!

Hold your peace! Ah! you cannot conceive it! Ever since That night, when, in a voice all new to me, Under my window you revealed your soul— Ah! ever since I have adored you! Now Your letters all this whole month long!—meseemed As if I heard that voice so tender, true, Sheltering, close! Thy fault, I say! It drew me, The voice o' th' night! Oh! wise Penelope Would ne'er have stayed to broider on her hearth-stone, If her Ulysses could have writ such letters! But would have cast away her silken bobbins, And fled to join him, mad for love as Helen! But…

I read, read again—grew faint for love; I was thine utterly. Each separate page