And Seem To Walk On

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

In Death A Hero, As In Life A Friend!

That Each From Other Differs, First Confess; Next That He Varies From Himself No Less.

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!