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XXIII



As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength\'s abundance weakens his own heart;

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love\'s rite,

And in mine own love\'s strength seem to decay,

O\'ercharg\'d with burthen of mine own love\'s might. 

O! let my looks be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

More than that tongue that more hath more express\'d.

  O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:

  To hear with eyes belongs to love\'s fine wit.

 	--William Shakespeare

Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have
lost
in information?
T. S. Eliot

CXIX



What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Distill\'d from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,

In the distraction of this madding fever!

O benefit of ill! now I find true

That better is, by evil still made better;

And ruin\'d love, when it is built anew,

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

  So I return rebuk\'d to my content,

  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

 	--William Shakespeare