No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it is suppress’d.
Some gentler passions slide into my mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind,
Let me or float or sink, be high or low,
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.
Queen Elizabeth.
Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves,