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This is at first; but what is the result? Hopes that lie mute in their own sullenness, For they have quarrell'd even with themselves; And joys indeed like birds of Paradise: And in their stead despair coils scorpion-like Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crush'd With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and wither'd up, Lies in its desolation,—this is love.

What is the tale that I would tell? Not one Of strange adventure, but a common tale Of woman's wretchedness; one to be read Daily in many a young and blighted heart. The lady whom I spake of rose again From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes Perchance the same as she had ever been.