New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.
None but the brave deserve the fair.
As poetry is the harmony of words, so music is that of notes.
Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.