What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught; With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought.

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

The World Forgetting, By The World Forgot. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind! Each Pray'r Accepted, And Each Wish Resign'd

Virtue May Choose The High Or Low Degree, 'tis Just Alike To Virtue, And To Me; Dwell In A Monk, Or Light Upon A King, She's Still The Same Belov'd, Contented Thing.