There Is Not One Wise Man In

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry. But Were We Burd'ned With Like Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain: So Thou, That Hast No Unkind Mate To Grieve Thee, With Urging Helpless Patience Wouldst Relieve Me; But If Thou Live To See Like Right Bereft, This Fool-begged Patience In Thee Will Be Left.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death! O Limed Soul That, Struggling To Be Free, Art More Engaged! Help, Angels! Make Assay! Bow, Stubborn Knees! And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe!

To Show An Unfelt Sorrow Is An Office Which The False Man Does Easy.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.