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Rh My Lord!…

True! I have all, and he has nought;… Yet I were proud to take his hand!

Adieu!

I go with you.

Ay, true, I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success —Though the past hold no action foul—one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Dukes' furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle—scarce a whisper,—like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.

You are pensive?