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The Solitary, and other poems

With The Cavalier, a play. By Charles Whitehead
  
  

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So he goes home, gay to the view,
Stung in the brain and bosom, too.
And “where is Kirke?”
“O, Sir! is 't you?

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I was in thought”—
“In tears, my boy!
Tears have two sources, grief and joy.
Thou supp'st with me to-night, good friend:
An hour or two of mirth to mend
The past, and with the future blend.
Is it not well?”
“Ay, Sir, 'tis best:
Well match'd, the giver and the guest.”
Jasper was gone, whom he address'd.
“What a brave wretch,” quoth Kirke, “is this!
I would I had that heart of his!”