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Better than thou! In all your stately city, Is there a lady fairer than thyself?

Yes, Lady Achinmore, there is a creature, Whose beauty changes every other face To an unnoticed blank; whose native grace Turns dames of courtly guise to household damsels; Whose voice of winning sweetness makes the tones Of every other voice intruding harshness.

And if there be, conceit will mar it all: For too much homage, like the mid-day sun, Withers the flower it brightens.

It may be so with others, not with her.

Thou lovest her then?

O, yes! I love her dearly; And if I did not, I should hate myself. Heed not these tears, nor think, because I weep, In saying that I love her, aught lurks here, Begrudging her felicity. O, no!