For dar'st thou feign the saffron on thy bosom Was not implanted in disloyal embrace? Or that this many-coloured love-tree blossom Shone not, but yesternight, above her face? Comest thou here, so late, to be forgiven, O thou, in whose eyes Truth was made to live? O thou, so worthy else of grace and heaven? O thou, so nearly won? Ere I forgive,

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