O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!
The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
To live a life half dead, a living death.
Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous.
Apt words have power to suage The tumors of a troubled mind.
Wisest men Have erred, and by bad women been deceived.
Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men; Unless there be who think not God at all.
What boots it at one gate to make defense, And at another to let in the foe?
My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them at rest.
But who is this, what thing of sea or land? Female of sex it seems, That so bedecked, ornate, and gay, Comes this way sailing Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for th' isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails filled, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play; An amber scent of odorous perfume Her harbinger?
Dalila: In argument with men a woman ever Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause. Samson: For want of words, no doubt, or lack of breath!
Fame, if not double-faced, is double-mouthed, And with contrary blast proclaims most deeds; On both his wings, one black, the other white, Bears greatest names in his wild airy flight.
Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offense returning, to regain Love once possessed.
Love-quarrels oft in pleasing concord end; Not wedlock-treachery.
The way to know were not to see, but taste.
Boast not of what thou would'st have done, but do What then thou would'st.
He’s gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
For evil news rides post, while good news baits.
Suspense in news is torture.
But he, though blind of sight, Despised, and thought extinguished quite, With inward eyes illuminated, His fiery virtue roused From under ashes into sudden flame, And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl. So Virtue, given for lost, Depressed and overthrown, as seemed, Like that self-begotten bird In the Arabian woods embost, That no second knows now third, And lay erewhile a holocaust, From out her ashy womb now teemed, Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most When most unactive deemed; And, though her body die, her fame survives, A secular bird, ages of lives.
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame, nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
All is best, though we oft doubt, What the unsearchable dispose Of highest Wisdom brings about.