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In sooth, she well may grace a noble mansion, Or chieftain's hall, or palace of a prince, Albeit her veins swell not with ancient blood. If so much grace and sweetness cannot please him, He must be ill to win. And by my faith! Perhaps she is this same mysterious lady, To whom, as thou suspectest, his late visits, So frequent and so long, have been devoted.

Ah, no! I fear another has his heart,— His constant heart, whom he, at least, will think Fairer than this sweet maid, or all besides.

And if it should be so, will nothing please him But the top-flower of beauty and perfection? The second best, methinks, ay, or the third,