Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

For she had eyes and chose me.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony

My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.

Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile

Best men oft are moulded out of faults.