I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.

Science grows and Beauty dwindles.