I 
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Make my breast 
Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, 
Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought 
My heart does hold. Where shall a woman turn 
Her eyes to find out constancy? 
Buckingham. 
No, never from this hour to part, 
We’ll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
Shall break thy Edwin’s too. 
Goldsmith. 
The Ivy round some lofty pile 
Its twining tendril flings; 
Though fled from thence be pleasure’s smile, 
It yet the fonder clings; 
As lonelier still becomes the place, 
The warmer is its fond embrace, 
More firm its verdant rings; 
As if it loved its shade to rear 
O’er one devoted to despair. 
Thus shall my bosom cling to thine, 
Unchanged by gliding years; 
Through Fortune’s rise, or her decline, 
In sunshine, or in tears; 
And though between us oceans roll, 
And rocks divide us, still my soul 
Shall feel no jealous fears: 
Confiding in a heart like thine, 
Love’s uncontaminated shrine. 
Mrs. Hale. 
