Caution Comes Too Late When We Are

But Search The Land Of Living Men, Where Wilt Thou Find Their Like Again?

Where Shall The Lover Rest, Whom The Fates Sever From His True Maiden's Breast, Parted For Ever? Where, Through Groves Deep And High, Sounds The Far Billow, Where Early Violets Die, Under The Willow.

To The Timid And Hesitating Everything Is Impossible Because It Seems So.

Commend Me To Sterling Honesty Though Clad In Rags.

Love, To Her Ear, Was But A Name, Combin'd With Vanity And Shame; Her Hopes, Her Fears, Her Joys, Were All Bounded Within The Cloister Wall.