All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.