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Ha! loving doves at their caresses In these dark craggy wildernesses?

My dear old Doctor, here at last! Come in, come in!

[Runs down and opens the garden gate.

Ho, not so fast! We've first to settle an old score.— What! Tie yourself to this wild moor, Where piercing winds of winter tear Like ice, soul, body to the core

Not soul.

Not? Well, I must admit, That seems about the truth of it. Your hasty compact has an air Of standing firm, unmoved, erect, Though otherwise, one might expect, By ancient usage, soon to fade That which so suddenly was made.

A sunbeam's kiss, a bell's note, may Awaken for a summer's day.

A patient waits for me. Farewell.

My mother?