A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

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

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

Tho' much is taken, much abides.