So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

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

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.