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To My Friend

Now while thy heart is fill'd with sorrow,
Would it were mine to sooth thy care,
Assure thee of a happier morrow;
Or if not sooth thy grief - to share.

Do I not share whatever grieves thee!
Yes, though in silence and unknown,
Thy image never,-never leaves me;
Thou dost not bear thy ills alone.

There is a heart that still would prize thee,
Though thou all other hearts should'st lose;
Though fortune her false smile denies thee,
There's one can ne'er her tears refuse.
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From
The Italian of Metastasio

If every one's internal care
Where written on his brow
How many would our pity share,
Who raise our envy now!

The fatal secret when reveal'd,
Of every aching breast,
Would prove that only while conceal'd
Their lot appears the best.
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