In Vain Doth Valour Bleed, While Avarice

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

Among Unequals What Society Can Sort, What Harmony, Or True Delight?

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Should God Create Another Eve, And I Another Rib Afford, Yet Loss Of Thee Would Never From My Heart; No No, I Feel The Link Of Nature Draw Me: Flesh Of Flesh, Bone Of My Bone Thou Art, And From Thy State Mine Never Shall Be Parted, Bliss Or Woe.