Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?

So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.

The old folk, time's doting chronicles.

Of chastity, the ornaments are chaste.

Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters: here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold.