I Must Choose Between Despair

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

Now A Soft Kiss - Aye, By That Kiss, I Vow An Endless Bliss.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.