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The bountiful profusion of a tongue Well stored with courteous words.

Nay, rather say, A tongue that is of all expression beggar'd, That can the inward sentiments declare Which your angelic presence still inspires. She did refuse, yet, ne'ertheless, I trust She bore my secret message to your ear.

'T was well for you I did not, good my Lord; You had not else, I trow, found entrance here.

It had, in truth, prevented this presumption. A secret message, saidst thou, for the ear Of Garcio's wife!

And does the man who quits thee,— Like a dull dolt such heavenly beauty quits,— Deserve the name of husband? No, sweet Marg'ret; Gloze not to me thy secret wrongs; I know, Full well I know them; nor shall formal names And senseless ties my ardent love repel. (Catching hold of her hand.)