So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I

We Are Time's Subjects, And Time Bids Be Gone.

World, World, O World! But That Thy Strange Mutations Make Us Hate Thee/ Life Would Not Yield To Age.

Nor Stony Tower, Nor Walls Of Beaten Brass, Nor Airless Dungeon, Nor Strong Links Of Iron, Can Be Retentive To The Strength Of Spirit; But Life, Being Weary Of These Worldly Bars, Never Lacks Power To Dismiss Itself.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.