I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

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

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

As the husband is, the wife is.

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.