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And who, that thought upon them now,
Would deem each heartless, broken vow,
Had e'er been worth believing?
Fond dreams, like summer flowers, fall,
And wither'd leaves and thorns are all
They leave their memory to recall,
So quickly have they perished;
And love that could so soon depart,
That open'd but to chill the heart,
Will not be long time cherished.
