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62 Look well at me,—then tell me, with what hope This vile protuberance can inspire my heart! I do not lull me with illusions,—yet At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim I enter some fair pleasaunce, perfumed sweet; With my poor ugly devil of a nose I scent spring's essence,—in the silver rays I see some knight,—a lady on his arm, And think, 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine, I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!' Thought soars to ecstasy,… O sudden fall!

The shadow of my profile on the wall!

My friend!…

My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter,

To feel my loneliness,—my own ill-favour…

You weep?

No, never! Think, how vilely suited Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing! I never will, while of myself I'm master, Let the divinity of tears—their beauty Be wedded to such common ugly grossness! Nothing more solemn than a tear,—sublimer; And I would not by weeping turn to laughter

The grave emotion that a tear engenders!