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I would not wish to see you laid Within an early tomb; I should forget how you betray'd,   And only weep your doom:

But this is fitting punishment, To live and love in vain,— Oh my wrung heart, be thou content, And feed upon his pain.

Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,— Thine own it will not be; And bask beneath her sunny eye,— It will not turn on thee.