The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
Bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.
Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.