Why so pale and wan, fond lover? The unconquerable pang of despised love. He who loves not wine, woman, and song, remains a fool his whole life long. True love hates and will not bear delay.
Their love can scarce deserve the name. As pure in thought as angels are, to know her was to love her. I know not, I ask not, if guilt is in that heart. Not from the whole wide world I chose thee
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