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Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this.

Is happiness so wholly past from thee, That its remembrance is turn'd into pain? Or is thy heart, thy woman's heart, so caught By this gay revel, that a serious thought Is counted as a pleasure lost?

O no! But now thy words give utterance to mine, Which else might seem so grave. I've lived too long