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If suffered but for thy dear sake; But they must be unshared by thee.

I cannot watch the cold decline Of love that wastes itself away: I am too used to warm sunshine, To bear the moonlight's paler ray.

I am too proud—vain hope to feel I could not brook thy secret sighs; I love—how could I bear to read Reproach or sorrow in thine eyes?

Oh, vain it were that honour kept Sacred the early vow it made, Or pity like a phantom wept O'er the dark urn where love was laid.