Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.