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 How oft,—if at the court of love

Concealment is the fashion,—

When How-d'ye-do has fail'd to move,

Good-bye reveals the passion?

How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,—

As every heart remembers,

One sigh of mine, and only mine,

Revives the dying embers?

Go, bid the timid lover choose,

And I'll resign my charter,

If he for ten kind How-d'ye do's,

One kind Good-bye would barter!

From love and friendship's kindred source

We both derive existence;

And they would both lose half their force

Without one joint assistance.

'Tis well the world our merit knows,

Since time, there's no denying,

One half in How-d'ye-doing goes,

And t'other in Good-bying.

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful Wheel she gazed;

All that she loved was there!

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.