The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.

The strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair.

Which, if not victory, is yet revenge.

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

None But such as are good men can give good things, And that which is not good, is not delicious To a well-govern'd and wise appetite.

Arms on armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd: dire was the noise Of conflict.

So dear I love him, that with him, all deaths I could endure, without him, live no life.