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PRINCE ARTHUR. HUBERT.

A. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again :
And with my hand at midnight held your head ;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief ?

'ΑΡΤΟΥΡΟΣ. ΟΥΒΕΡΤΟΣ.

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Α. τλαίης δε πως άν; σοι γαρ ευτήλγει κάρα,

ζώνην κόμαισι σαϊς επιζεύξας έμήν, .
εμών γ αρίστην, βασιλίδος δ' έργον χερός,
είτ' ουκ απήτουν" και το σον χερούν έμαϊν
κάρα μεσούσης ευφρόνης εβάστασα
γνώμων γαρ έρπονθ' ως βάδην τηρεί χρόνον
εγερτι πικράν ώδ' εκούφιζον τριβήν,
λέγων, τι χρήζεις; πη δε τάλγος Τζάνει και

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Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will :
If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,
Why then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes ?
These eyes that never did nor never shall
So much as frown on you?

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H.

I have sworn to do it,

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

SHAKESPEARE.

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ποίας δε δει σε φιλτάτης υπουργίας και
φαύλου μεν είσί πατρός οίς βρίζειν παρόν
ουκ ήξίωσάν σ' ουδ' άν εύ προσεννέπειν
σοι δ' αυ νοσούντι πρόσπολος παρήν άναξ.
αλλ' ου φιλούντα δήθεν ευπρεπής λόγος
προσήκασεν φιλούντι φάσκ', ει σοι χάρις:
ει δ' ούν μολεϊν σε τούδε λυμαντήριον
θεούς δέδοκται, τούργον έστεργαστέον.
τλήσει σύ τώνδε μ' όμμάτων τητώμενον,
των ούτε πρόσθεν ουδ' επισχόντων γε σοι

σκύθρωπον όψιν ούτ' εφεξόντων ποτέ; “ΟΥ. ενώματος γάρ ειμι ποιήσειν τάδε

ακμαίς δε χρή σοι μ' έμπύροις φθείρειν κόρας.

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To a Lady's Girdle.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind :
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere
The pale which held that lovely deer :
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! And yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair ;
Give me but what this riband bound-
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

WALLER.

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