Repentance Is The Virtue Of Weak Minds.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

He Who Would Pry Behind The Scenes Oft Sees A Counterfeit.

Tomorrow Do Thy Worst, For I Have Lived Today: Be Fair Or Foul Or Rain Or Shine, The Joys I Have Possessed In Spite Of Fate Are Mine. Not Heaven Itself Upon The Past Has Power; But What Has Been Has Been, And I Have Had My Hour.

A Woman's Counsel Brought Us First To Woe, And Made Her Man His Paradise Forego, Where At Heart's Ease He Liv'd; And Might Have Been As Free From Sorrow As He Was From Sin.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.