Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Constancy... That Small Change Of Love, Which People Exact So Rigidly, Receive In Such Counterfeit Coin, And Repay In Baser Metal.

Now What I Love In Women Is, They Won't Or Can't Do Otherwise Than Lie, But Do It. So Well, The Very Truth Seems Falsehood To It.

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

How Sweet And Soothing Is This Hour Of Calm! I Thank Thee, Night! For Thou Has Chased Away These Horrid Bodements Which, Amidst The Throng, I Could Not Dissipate; And With The Blessing Of Thy Benign And Quiet Influence Now Will I To My Couch, Although To Rest Is Almost Wronging Such A Night As This.