He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

Ring out the false, ring in the true.