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 With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
 * Amid the pomp of affluence she pined;

Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
 * Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
 * Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth,

May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
 * That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.