What are the long waves singing so mournfully evermore?
What are they singing so mournfully as they weep on the sandy shore?
“Olivia, oh, Olivia!”—what else can it seem to be?
“Olivia, lost Olivia, will never return to thee!”
“Olivia, lost Olivia!”—what else can the sad song be?—
“Weep and mourn, she will not return,—she cannot return, to thee!”
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From “Twelfth Night,” Act I. Sc. 5.
VIOLA.—’T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.