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The form that hath to me of earthly make No fellow? May it be without transgression?

Why should'st thou not? De Grey, thou art too fearful; Here art thou come with no dishonest will; And well she knows thine honour. Her commands, Though we must yield to them, capricious seem; Seeing thou art with me, too nicely scrupulous; And therefore need no farther be obey'd Than needs must be. She puts thee not on honour. Were I so used

'Spite of thy pride, would'st thou Revere her still the more.—O, no, brave Lorne! I blame her not. When she, a willing victim, To spare the blood of two contending clans, Against my faithful love her suffrage gave, I bless'd her: and the deep, but chasten'd sorrow With which she bade me—Oh! that word! farewell, Is treasured in my bosom as its share Of all that earthly love hath power to give. It came from Helen, and, from her received, Shall not be worn with thankless dull repining.

A noble heart thou hast: such manly meekness