Then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A Paradise within thee, happier far.
Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.