To La Sansoeur
W
William Roscoe
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I KNOW not how to call you light,
Since I myself was lighter;
Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.
I know not which began to range
Since we were never constant;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.
But this I know, the God of Love
Both shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne’er did prove
True passion—but pretences.
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