But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .

And she's fair I love.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!

To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

My soul is in the sky.