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I do not say, bequeath unto my soul Thy memory, I rather ask forgetting; Withdraw, I pray, from me thy strong control; Though, that withdrawn, what has life worth regretting? Alas! this is a miserable earth! Too late, or else too soon, the heart-beat quickens: Hope finds too late its light was nothing worth, And round a dark and final vapour thickens.

silken folds of the crimson curtain which hung over the window, and a stand of odoriferous plants, almost concealed the balcony where Henrietta and Sir George were standing. Behind them were the illuminated rooms, from