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And turn'd to fair , As to his destiny's best oracle: ‘Twas at midnight, beneath her bower, he sung Those gentle words, with which love gifts the tongue.

Oh! give me but my gallant steed, My spurs and sword to serve at need, The shield that has my father's crest, Thy colours, lady, on my breast, And I will forth to wild warfare, And win thee, or will perish there. I am unknown, of a lost line, And thou, love, art the flow'r of thine. I know thou art above me far, Yet still thou art hope's leading star;