to cloy the hungry edge of appetite
now mark me how I did undo myself
and Time hat set a blot upon my pride
aphotic
and nothing can we call our own but death
Could I have glimpses that would make me less
forlorn?
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
W.W
May I compare this prison to the world,
and will my cross be planted freshly in
the ground? This pallsome moment is absurd!
Getting and spending, I gave myself away.
So moved by flatterers and parasites!
I wasted all my powers. A sordid boon!
And all this flesh, decrepit flesh, shall rot
away until all memory is lost.
For God's sake let us sit upon the ground
and tell sad tales about the death of kings.
Let's talk of worms and graves and epitaphs,
as that grim Jester mocks me in my dreams.
The worst is Death and Death will have his day.
God save the King! Will no man say: Amen?