It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul