If Something Is Not Beautiful,

And There Shall Be For Thee All Soft Delight That Shadowy Thought Can Win, A Bright Torch, And A Casement Ope At Night, To Let The Warm Love In!

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The Brier, For Winds To Kiss And Grateful Bees To Feed.

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.

Give Me Women, Wine And Snuff Until I Cry Out 'hold, Enough!' You May Do So San Objection Till The Day Of Resurrection; For Bless My Beard Then Aye Shall Be My Beloved Trinity.