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His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time;
For Tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion,
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand
Full of the magic of exploded science-
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance,
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood.-Still, still, for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering:-better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

STANZAS TO THE PO.(1) RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls,(2) Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me;

What if thy deep and ample stream should be

A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,

Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed! What do I say-a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away

(I) About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to find the Countess Guiccioli. These stanzas, which have been as much admired as any of the kind he ever wrote, were composed, according to Madame Guiccioli's statement, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sailing on the Po. In transmitting them to England, in May, 1820, he says, "They must not be published: pray recollect this, as they are mere verses of society, and written upon private feelings and passions." They were first printed in 1824.-L. E.

(2) Ravenna-a city to which Lord Byron afterwards declared himself more attached than to any other place, except Greece. He resided in it rather more than two years, "and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli, "with the deepest regret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils: he was continually performing generous actions: many families owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed; his arrival was

But left long wrecks behind: and now again, Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,

And I-to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,—
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow!

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?-
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.
But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,

I had not left my clime, nor should I be, In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love,-at least of thee. 'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish youngLive as I lived, and love as I have loved; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIÈRES.

IF, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half-a-dozen dimples,

Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;
Yet even then't would be d-d ugly.

spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his depar ture as a public calamity." In the third Canto of Don Juan, Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, at this time, he was leading :

Sweet hour of twilight!-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood.
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

"The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bells that rose the boughs among; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye."-L. E.

Obscures his glory;

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, (1)

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

[raise

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits,

For who would lift a hand, except to bless?

Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet To make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete;

A despot thou, and yet thy people free,

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

BOLOGNA, August 12, 1819.

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No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;

Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;

A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing-
He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the spring. (3)

Like chiefs of faction,

His life is action,

A formal paction

That curbs his reign,

(1) "So the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto? There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good: it was a very noble piece of principality." Lord B. to Mr. Murray. -L. E.

(2) A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ravenna when he wrote these Stanzas, says, "They were

Despot no more, he
Such territory

Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on-
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!
Till years are over,
And then recover,

As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,
All hideous seem-
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing

All passion blight:

If once diminish'd

Love's reign is finish'd

Then part in friendship,-and bid good-night. (4)

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composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He · had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately quit Italy; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song, was labouring under an access of fever.”—LE (3) "That sped his spring."-L. E.

(4) V. L.-"One last embrace, then, and bid good-night." | -L. E.

ON MY WEDDING-DAY.(1) HERE's a happy new year! but with reason I beg you'll permit me to sayWish me many returns of the season, But as few as you please of the day.

January 2, 1820.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple, Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel

Now lies in the Abbey.

EPIGRAM.

Is digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
Will. Cobbett has done well:

You visit him on earth again,
He'll visit you in hell. (2)

EPIGRAM.

THE world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

ON SOME BROTHER POETS. WHAT news, what news! Queen Oreaca, What news of scribblers five? S, W ---9 Ce, L-d, and C--e, All damn'd though yet alive!

IMPROMPTU.(3)

BENEATH ***'s eyes

The reclaim'd Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil; But if the new Eve

For an apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil?

TO MR. MURRAY.

I'm thankful for your books, dear Murray, But why not send Scott's Monastery?

1820.

(1) This quatrain is extracted from a letter of Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, bearing the above date. The lines are prefaced by those which follow, taken from Cowper's John Gilpin:

"To-day it is my wedding-day,

And all the folks would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."-P. E.

(2) In the MS.

"You come to him on earth again,
He'll go with you to bell."-L. E.

These lines, together with the "Epitaph for William Pitt" were enclosed in a letter to Mr. Moore, Jan. 2, 1820, in which the author thus alludes to them:-" Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name, except among the initiated, because my friend H. has foamed into a reformer, and I greatly fear will subside into Newgate.”—P. E.

(3) "With the view of inducing his friends (the Earl and Countess of Blessington) to prolong their stay at Genoa, Byron suggested their taking a pretty villa, called Il Paradiso, in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was, that, on the lady expressing some intentions of residing there, he produced the above impromptu. The jest which it contains

THE IRISH AVATAR. (4)

ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide,
Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his—
bride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rainbow-like epoch where freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her

cause.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags;
The Castle still stands, and the senate's no more,
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes, in the promise and bloom of threescore,

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er; Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy
chain,

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ?
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.
Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
Ever-glorious Grattan! (5) the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!

had been applied by the Genoese wits to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a casa saluzzo), had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said 'Il Diavolo é ancora entrato in Paradiso.'" Moore.-P. E.

re

(4) "In one copy, the following sentence (taken from a letter of Curran, in the able life of that true Irishman, written by his son) is prefixed as a motto to the poem :'And Ireland like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to ceive the paltry rider.'-At the end of the verses are these words;-(Signed) W. L. B, M. A., and written with a view to a bishoprick.'" Moore, Life.-P. E.

"I will show you my Irish Avatara. Moore tells me that it has saved him from writing on the same subject: he would have done it much better." Medwin.-P. E.

(5) The stanzas referring to Grattan, appear to have been additions made to the poem as it was originally composed. In a letter of Lord B. to Mr. Moore, we find the following: -"After the stanza on Grattan, concluding with His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied,' will it please you to cause insert the following addenda,' which I dreamed of during to-day's siesta:

Ever glorious Grattan,' etc, etc. etc."-P. E.'

With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her

earth,

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-Without one single ray of her genius, without But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb

Of the first, last, the saviour, the one!

ages,

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,—
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim

His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country conHalf an age's contempt was an error of fame, [vince And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?
Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!
Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!"

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow.

But let not his name be thine idol alone

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!(1) Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, (I) In the MS.

"A name never spoke but with curses or jeers." "The last line," writes Lord B. to Mr. Moore, "must run either

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race— The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base:

If she did let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, bow low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight.
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still
for thee!

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my
land,
[SODS,
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.
For happy are they now reposing afar,—

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan,-all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; There was something so warm and sublime in the cure

Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon

power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!

SONNET TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
ROGERS! much honour'd, howsoe'er assail'd
By wanton ignorance or ribald mirth,
Thy dwelling as a temple has been hail'd

Sacred to art, to genius, and to worth,
Thyself the high priest. Star and coronet

Are mated there with blushing merit; there The frost-nipp'd bud of talent oft hath met

The warmth that nursed it till its fruit it bare. None more than thou have true desert extoll'd, None more than thou have scorn'd the heartless proud. How many sufferers hast thou consoled

All silently! Nor need they speak aloud, In hopes to shame the wretch condemn'd to carve Food for foul stomachs, or himself to starve.

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FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

DANTE, L'INFERNO.

CANTO V.

"SIEDE la terra dove nata fui

Su la marina, dove il Po discende,
Per aver pace coi seguaci sui,
Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s' apprende,

Prese costui della bella persona

Che mi fu tolta; e il modo ancor m' offende. Amor, che a null' amato amar perdona,

Mi prese del costui piacer si forte,

Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona ;
Amor condusse noi ad una morte:

Caina attende chi in vita ci spense:"
Queste parole da lor ci fur porte.

(1) This translation, of what is generally considered the most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina Commedia, was executed in March, 1820, at Ravenna, where, just five centuries before, and in the very house in which the unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed.

In mitigation of the crime of Francesca, Boccaccio relates, that "Guido engaged to give his daughter in marriage to Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy, the master of Rimini. Lanciotto, who was hideously deformed in countenance and figure, foresaw that, if he presented himself in person, he should be rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to marry her by proxy, and sent as his representative his younger brother, Paolo, the handsomest and most Francesca saw Paolo araccomplished man in all Italy. rive, and imagined she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the commencement of her passion. The friends of Guido addressed him in strong remonstrances, and mournful predictions of the dangers to which he exposed a daughter, whose high spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with impunity. But Guido was no longer in a condition to make war; and the necessities of the politician overcame the feelings of the father."

In transmitting his version to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron says-Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third rhyme (terza rima), of which your British blackguard reader as yet You know that she understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. was born here, and married, and slain, from Cary, Boyd, and such people. I have done it into cramp English, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. If it is published, publish it with the original."

In one of the poet's MS. Diaries we find the following passage:-"January 29, 1821, past midnight-one of the clock. I have been reading Frederick Schlegel till now, and I can make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt in English, who talks pimples; a red and white corruption rising up (in little imitation of mountains upon maps), but containing nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own humours.

I like him the worse

(that is, Schlegel), because he always seems upon the verge of meaning; and, lo! he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a rather rich confusion.

Of Dante,

he says, that at no time has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever been much the favourite of his countrymen!' 'Tis false. There have been more editors and commentators (and imitators ultimately) of Dante, than of all their poets put together. Not a favourite! Why, they talk Dante-write Dante-and think and dream Dante, at this moment (1821), to an excess which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it. He says also that Dante's chief Of gentle defect is a want, in a word, of gentle feelings.' feelings!-and Francesca of Rimini-and the father's feelings in Ugolino-and Beatrice-and 'La Pia!' Why, there is a gentleness in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much scope or site for gentleness: but who but Dante could have introduced any 'gentleness' at all No-and Dante's into Hell? Is there any in Milton's?

Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty."

Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, Lord of Ravenna and of Cervia, was given by her father in marriage to Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, a man of exLectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and Modern.-L. E.

FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.

FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. (1)

CANTO V.

"THE land where I was born (2) sits by the seas,
Upon that shore to which the Po descends,
With all his followers, in search of peace.
Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en (3)
From me, and me even yet the mode offends.
Love, who to none beloved to love again

Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong,
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain.
Love to one death conducted us along,

But Cainà (4) waits for him our life who ended :" (5) These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.

His

traordinary conrage, but deformed in his person. brother Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which the husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections; and being taken in adultery, they were both put to death The interest of this pathetic by the enraged Lanciotto. narrative is much increased, when it is recollected that the father of this unfortunate lady was the beloved friend and See generous protector of Dante during his latter days. ante, p. 333, and also Canto xxvii. of the Inferno, where Dante, speaking of Ravenna, says

"L'aquila da Polenta la si cova

Si che Cervia ricopre co' suoi vanni.”.
"There Polenta's eagle broods,
And in his broad circumference of plume
O'ershadows Cervia."-Cary.

Guido was the son of Ostasio da Polenta, and made himself master of Ravenna in 1265. In 1322, he was deprived of his sovereignty, and died at Bologna in the year following. He is enumerated, by Tiraboschi, among the poets of his time.-L. E.

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'Seized him for the fair person, which in its Bloom was ta'en from me, yet the mode offends. Seized him for the fair form, of which in its Bloom I was reft, and yet the mode offends. Love, which to none beloved to love remits, with mutual wish to please Seized me with wish of pleasing him with the desire to please

so strong.

That, as thou see'st, not yet that passion quits,' etc. You will find these readings vary from the MS. I sent you. They are closer, but rougher: take which is liked best; or, if you like, print them as variations. They are all close to the text." B. Letters.-L. E.

(4) From Cain, the first fratricide. By Cainà we are to understand that part of the Inferno to which murderers are condemned.

(5) The whole history of woman's love is as highly and completely wronght, we think, in these few lines, as that of Juliet in the whole tragedy of Shakspeare. Francesca imputes the passion her brother-in-law conceived for her, not to depravity, but nobleness of heart in him, and to her own loveliness. With a mingled feeling of keen sorrow and complacent naïveté, she says she was fair, and that an ignomi nious death robbed him of her beauty. She confesses that she loved, because she was beloved,-that charm had deluded her; and she declares, with transport, that joy had not abandoned her even in hell

-'piacer si forte,

Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona.*

It is thus that Dante unites perspicuity with conciseness, and the most naked simplicity with the profoundest observation of the heart. Her guilty passion survives its punishment by Heaven-but without a shade of impiety. How striking is the contrast of her extreme happiness, in the midst of torments that can never cease; when, resuming her narrative, she looks at her lover, and repeats with enthu

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