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Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy, Loathing she turn'd. "Yet what a wretch am I! This must not be!—stain'd cheek and fever'd brow Too much the secret of my soul avow. Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep What burning tears could weep. Oh, never let  know the worst: 'Tis well if he believe I changed the first. Too much e'en to myself has been reveal'd, —And thus be every trace of tears conceal'd." She sought the alcove where the fountain play'd, And wash'd from lip and cheek their crimson shade; And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls The waters left, as if in pity shed; She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed;