New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.
If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.
There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!