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Yet for all that, in thy coyness, And thy fickle fits between, Hope is there—at least the border Of her garment may be seen.

Lures to faith are they, those glimpses, And to faith in thee I hold; Kindness can not make it stronger, Coldness can not make it cold. If it be that love is gentle. In thy gentleness I see Something holding out assurance To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion Lies a power hearts to move. That which every day I show thee, Helpful to my suit should prove. Many a time thou must have noticed— If to notice thou dost care— How I go about on Monday Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love's eyes love to look on brightness; Love loves what is gayly drest; Sunday, Monday, all I care is Thou shouldst see me in my best. No account I make of dances. Or of strains that pleased thee so, Keeping thee awake from midnight Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it That there 's none so fair as thou; True it is, but as I said it. By the girls I'm hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside At my praise of thee was sore;