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56 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1813
”But Love itself cound never pant
For all that Beauty sigh to grant
With half the fervour Hate bestows
Upon the last embrace of foes,
When grappling in the fight they fold
Those arms that ne’er shall lose their hold:
Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith;
True foes, once met, are joined till death!”
”Waste not thine orison, despair
Is mightier than thy pious prayer:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no Paradise, but rest.”