The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is - to die.

When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away?

This same philosophy is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.

The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.

Stand us against a wall and shoot us, well and good, you are victors. But why should I be brought before a Tribunal like a c-c-c-... I can't even get the word …

This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead That sparkled so the day I saw it first, And darkened slowly after. I am she Who loves all beauty - yet I wither it.

O Death, rock me asleep, Bring me to quiet rest, Let pass my weary guiltless ghost Out of my careful breast.