Shades form no shelter from its power,
Power trembles in his courtly bower.
Bower of beauty—art thou free?
Free thou art not—nor canst thou be!
Be every other class released,
Released from love, thy woe's increased;
Increased by all the weight of care,
Care flowing from complete despair."
"Humph!" said Sir Ambrose.
"I hope your honour is pleased with this little effusion of my Muse?"
"Oh yes, it is very fine, Abelard."
"And your honour thinks it well turned, and well expressed."
"Excellently! only I own I don't understand why despair comes in the last line."
"Despair—despair: oh! to rhyme with care, your honour."
"That reason is unanswerable," returned Sir Ambrose, smiling.—"And so you are quite sure you have lost Edric's note!—Not that it is of the least consequence, as nothing he could say, can possibly alter my opinion of his conduct; but, if you had had it—I thought
