Remembrance Of Things Past.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

To This Urn Let Those Repair That Are Either True Or Fair; For These Dead Birds Sigh A Prayer.

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

Men's Faults Do Seldom To Themselves Appear.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together.