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He is the star round which my thoughts revolve Like satellites. My father, can it be That thine, the unceasing love of many years, Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest? I loved thee once so wholly,—now methinks I love thee for that thou lovest Jaromir. —It is the lamp gone out,—that dreams like these Should be by darkness broken! I am grown So superstitious in my fears and hopes, As if I thought that all things must take part In my great love.—Alas, my poor old nurse, How she has waited! [Exit.