Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

Change lays her hand not upon the truth.

To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.

Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.