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 I. 
 II. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The CONFESSION.
  
  


210

The CONFESSION.

Oh, Sephalissa! dearest maid!
So blooming, kind, and free,
The goddess of Cythera's shade
Is not so fair as thee!
Thy image always fills my mind;
The theme of ev'ry song:
I'm fix'd to thee alone I find,
But ask not for how long.
The fair in gen'ral I've admir'd;
Have oft been false and true;
And when the last my fancy tir'd,
It wander'd round to you.
Then while I can I'll be sincere,
As turtles to their mates:
This moment's yours and mine my dear!
The next you know is fate's.