For who so well hath wooed the maiden hours
As quite to have won the worth of their rich show,
To rob the night of mystery, or the flowers
Of their sweet delicacy ere they go?
Nay, even the dear occasion when we know
We miss the joy, and on the gliding day
The special glories float and pass away,
Only life’s common plod: still to repair
The body and the thing which perisheth:
The soil, the smutch, the toil and ache and wear,