When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.
Faultless to a fault.
God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
Most progress is most failure.