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Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/447

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But thou deserv'st a better heart,
Than they or I can give for thine.


For thee, and such as thee, behold,
Is Fortune painted truly—blind!
Who doomed thee to be bought or sold,
Has proved too bounteous to be kind.


Each day some tempter's crafty suit
Would woo thee to a loveless bed:
I see thee to the altar's foot
A decorated victim led.


Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak
my secret thoughts may be;
Though thou art all that man can seek
I dare not talk of Love to thee.


I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,[2]

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:
  1. ["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase."—Letter to Moore, May 4, 1814, Letters, 1899, iii. 80.]
  2. I speak not—I breathe not—I write not that name.—[MS. erased.]