And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.