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Rh

The tender impulse, play the hypocrite, And school each guarded phrase to cold respect.

Oh, whilst I hang upon the melody Of thy loved voice, list to the tender vow, And wreathe my fingers in the crisped curls That cluster o'er thy brow, no cankered care Will dare intrude; and were there no restraint Upon my foolish fondness, thou would'st soon Grow weary, Julian, and mope, and pine, Like a caged turtle for thy liberty.

You wrong me by the thought, my beauteous queen; I were unfit to share the joys of heaven, If I could tire of Eden. Do not chide— Thy meek lip knows not chiding; do not sigh To hear thy Julian confess, even bliss Like this is dearly purchased; 'gainst my king I have offended, and my conscious soul Dares not to commune with its dearest friend,