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30 Its lying forms were worthy aught And much less thee.

O speak not so, But come to me and pour thy woe Into this heart, full though it be, Aye overflowing with its own: I thought that grief had severed me From all beside who weep and groan; Its likeness upon earth to be, Its express image; but thou art More wretched. Sweet! we will not part Henceforth, if death be not division; If so, the dead feel no contrition. But wilt thou hear, since last we parted All that has left me broken hearted?

Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn Which sinks again in darkness, like the light Of early love, soon lost in total night.

Alas! Italian winds are mild, But my bosom is cold—wintry cold— When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves, Soft music, my poor brain is wild, And I am weak like a nursling child, Though my soul with grief is grey and old.

Weep not at thine own words, though they must make Me weep. What is thy tale?