Lady.
If Love be dead (and you aver it!)
Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried.
Poet.
Love lies buried where ’twas born,
Ah, faithless nymph! think it no scorn
If in my fancy I presume
To name thy bosom poor Love’s Tomb,
And on that Tomb to read the line,
Here lies a Love that once was mine,
But took a chill, as I divine,
And died at length of a decline.
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