You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

My love admits no qualifying dross

How much an ill word may empoison liking!

I was adored once too.

I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

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. . . .