In following their line through, and those of Plantagenet and Tudor, there is but little to soothe the mind.

May its index point to joy, And moments wing'd with new delights. Sweet may resound each silver bell, And never quick returning chime, Seem in reproving notes to tell, Of hours mispent, and murder'd time.

In following their line through, and those of Plantagenet and Tudor, there is but little to soothe the mind.

Silene, who declines The garish noontide's blazing light; But when the evening crescent shines, Gives all her sweetness to the night.

If conquest does not bind posterity, so neither can compact bind it.