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I must re-lock the gate, for Isabel Is grown too careless, and will let the sun Illume the parting hour. Farewell! Farewell! Dear Julian, since it must be so; at night Remember love thy weeping Isabel.

Are they not sland'rous poets who have styled The god of love a vagrant truant boy?— 'Tis sixteen months, I think, since thou hast played The faithful fond adoring lover. Fie, What a bad fashion dost thou set at court. Nay, nay, confess the truth, thy love is feigned. It is the very essence of my being; life Were valueless without it; love creates A Paradise of bliss, and who would wake From dreams delicious to a dull cold world?