The Resemblance.

A poem by Thomas Moore

---- vo cercand' io,
Donna quant' e possibile in altrui
La desiata vostra forma vera.
PETRARC, Sonett. 14.


Yes, if 'twere any common love,
That led my pliant heart astray,
I grant, there's not a power above
Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one
In every look so like to thee
That, underneath yon blessed sun
So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,
She held with thine a kindred sway,
And wore the only shape on earth
That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,
'Twas love that waked the fond excess;
My heart had been more true to thee,
Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.

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