Have Hung My Dank And Dropping Weeds

These Eyes, Tho' Clear To Outward View Of Blemish Or Of Spot, Bereft Of Light, Their Seeing Have Forgot, Nor To Their Idle Orbs Doth Sight Appear Of Sun, Or Moon, Or Star, Throughout The Year, Or Man, Or Woman. Yet I Argue Not Against Heaven's Hand Or Will, Not Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.

How Gladly Would I Meet Mortality, My Sentence, And Be Earth In Sensible! How Glad Would Lay Me Down, As In My Mother's Lap! There I Should Rest, And Sleep Secure.

By A Certain Fate, Great Acts, And Great Eloquence Have Most Commonly Gone Hand In Hand, Equalling And Honoring Each Other In The Same Ages.

With Thee Goes Thy Husband, Him To Follow Thou Art Bound; Where He Abides, Think There Thy Native Soil.

Know Thy Birth! For Dost Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.