How fares it with the happy dead?
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.