Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
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.
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.