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 with thousands of common lovers, than one hour in the presence of such as I am. Do you repent, love? It is impossible. Look back to the time that is gone; count over the hours of solitude and social life; bear in your memory every picture of fancied bliss, and tell me truly if they can be compared to the transport, the ecstasy of being loved.

"Oh! there is Heaven in the language of adoration; and one hour thus snatched from eternity is cheaply purchased by an age of woe. My love, my soul, look not thus. Now is the season of youth. Whilst fresh and balmy as the rose in summer, dead to remorse, and burning with hidden fires, dash all fear and all repentance from you; leave repinings to the weak and the old, and taste the consolation love alone can offer. What can heal its injuries? What remove its regrets? What shews you its vanity and illusion but itself? This hour we enjoy