Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.