How can you know my sorrow? But is it what we love, or how we love, that makes true good? I cannot say, but I feel it is so and I am tormented accordingly. The falling out of lovers is the renewing of love.
Love is ever true, and yet is ever lying. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. My love lies bleeding below the myrtle tree. For love sincere refines upon the taste.
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