I dore not always touch her, lest the kiss Leave my lips charred. Yea, Lord, a little bliss, Brief, bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; Nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.

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

Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.

The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight.

Despair the twin-born of devotion.

Time stoops to no man's lure.