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I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend! but better, better far, Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war; In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine— And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights, With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights; For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine— And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine.