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What say'st thou? Oh, what meaning is there here! Yes, yes! I know it all! but it is dreadful: It makes the cold chill o'er my limbs to creep: It is not well: it is not holy. No! O no, my noble love, mine honour'd love! Give to thy fallen lord all that the soul To widow'd love may give, but oh stop there! Heav'n will protect thee in the hour of need; And for the rest, erase it from thy thoughts, Give it no being there.

It hath no being there. Heav'n will protect me: And he who thinks me helpless thinks me mean.

I think thee all that e'er was tenanted Of noblest worth in loveliest female form: By nature excellent, defective only In this, that fortune has thy virtues link'd To the vex'd spirit of a ruin'd man, Who in his hours of anguish has not priz'd them As did become their worth.

No, thou hast priz'd them, In thy blind love, far, far beyond their worth.