Nothing should be made by man's labour which is not worth making; or…

O thrush, your song is passing sweet But never a song that you have sung, Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear Love and I were young.

I know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

Wert thou more fickle than the restless sea, Still should I love thee, knowing thee for such.

The majesty That from man's soul looks through his eager eyes.

Now such an one for daughter Creon had As maketh wise men fools and young men mad.

From out the throng and stress of lies, From out the painful noise of sighs, One voice of comfort seems to rise: "It is the meaner part that dies."