|But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; all great loves that have ever died dropped dead.|
The white moth to the closing vine, the bee to the open clover.
The heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me.
By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy.
The first crime compels us to do more.
She knew she was by him beloved, she knew.
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