My mind is clouded with a doubt.

I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.