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Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs, Agonies and ecstasies; Hopes, like fires amid the gloom, Lighting only to consume! Happiness one hasty draught, And the lip has venom quaffed. Doubt, despairing, crime and craft, Are upon that honied shaft! It has made the crowned king Crouch beneath his suffering; Made the beauty's cheek more pale Than the foldings of her veil; Like a child, the soldier kneel Who had mocked at flame or steel; Bade the fires of genius turn On their own breasts, and there burn;