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— Walter Scott"Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow."
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Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
— William Shakespeare
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