Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Friendship is Love without his wings!