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To be the object of that tenderness Natural to every heart; which can resign Its own best happiness for one dear sake; Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,— For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,— And doth prefer another to itself. Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love, Can melt away the dross of worldliness; Can elevate, refine, and make the heart Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine For fire, as sacred as e'er came from Heaven? No more of this:—one word may read my heart, And that one word is utter weariness! Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret, And think I will restring my lute, and nerve My woman's hand for nobler enterprise;