So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
Ce n’est pas toujours le dévot extrème
Le plus vrai croyant,
Ni toujours celui qui dit: je vous aime,
Le mieux vous aimant.
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