There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.

A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

The old order changeth yielding place to new And God fulfills himself in many ways Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me I have lived my life and that which I have done May he within himself make pure but thou If thou shouldst never see my face again Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.