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What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
T. S. Eliot

LVII



Being your slave what should I do but tend,

Upon the hours, and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend;

Nor services to do, till you require. 

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,

When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love, that in your will,

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

 	--William Shakespeare

XXX



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time\'s waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death\'s dateless night,

And weep afresh love\'s long since cancell\'d woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanish\'d sight:

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o\'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

  All losses are restor\'d and sorrows end.

 	--William Shakespeare

III



Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest

Now is the time that face should form another;

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

For where is she so fair whose unear\'d womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,

Of his self-love to stop posterity? 

Thou art thy mother\'s glass and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

  But if thou live, remember\'d not to be,

  Die single and thine image dies with thee.

 	--William Shakespeare