Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.