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Though absent, present in desires they be;
Nur souls much further than our eyes can see.

Absence not long enough to root out quite
All love, increases love at second sight.

T. Max, Every moment I'm from thy sight, the heart within my bosom Moans like a tender infant in its cradle, Whose nurse has left it.

OTWAY's Venice Preserved,

There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming nights but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Of thee.

PROCTOR's Mirandola,
What tender strains of passion can impart
'The pangs of absence to an amorous heart !
Far, far too faint the powers of language prove,
Language, that slow interpreter of love!
Souls paired like ours, like ours to union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought.


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