To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Dark with excessive bright.
Hell has no benefits, only torture.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.