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Come tell me, says Julia, and tell me sincerely, Why men are so prone to deceive us; O, cruel to make us believe they love dearly, And then can perfidiously leave us.

Fair censor, I answered, though such there may be, Yet judge not all so unkindly; The heart that beats loyal, as mine does to thee, Can never turn rebel so blindly.

I grant so, she answered, audand [sic] yield to it fairly. Some few may be free from the treason. But then to our sorrow, we find it so rarely. To doubt and mistrust ye, we’ve reason.

Not quite so, I told her, the love that is sincere Can but with existence be parted, Like the fond turtle-dove, ’twill be true to its dear. And never, no, never false-hearted.

She smil’d, and yet blush’d like a rose in full bearing, And seem’d from her doubts to awaken; Then own’d, freely own’d, like an angel declaring. She might, to be sure, be mistaken.

O yes, and so sweetly her eyes made it known, Not a glance but a god might set store by, And fate from that moment enchain’d me ere now, And her lip was the altar I swore by.