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Kind, tender, but too sensitive, None seem'd her equal love to bear; Affection's ties small joys could give, Tried but by what she hoped they were. Too much on all her feelings threw The colouring of their own hue; Too much her ardent spirit dream'd Things would be such as she had deem'd. She trusted love, albeit her heart Was ill made for love's happiness; She ask'd too much, another's part Was cold beside her own excess. She sought for praise; her share of fame, It went beyond her wildest claim: But ill could her proud spirit bear All that befalls the laurel's share;—