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See; twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell, And on the fibred leaves stray far apart, Like little rounded gems of silver sheen, Whilst curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold The stem that bears them! All looks young and fresh. The very spider through his circled cage Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended, Scarce seems a lothly thing, but like the small Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph. Is it not so, my father?

Yes, morn and youth and freshness sweetly join, And are the emblems of dear changeful days. By night those beauteous things

And what of night? Why do you check your words? You are not sad?

No, Portia; only angry with myself For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts With those of sullen age. Away with them! What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and silken, Are gathered into dank and wrinkled folds When evening chills them, or upon the earth With broken stems and buds torn and dispers'd, Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it so!