I loved - but those I loved are gone; Had friends - my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead… - Lord Byron

Pra mim, o que passou está passado, (For me, I leave the matter where I find it,)
Pois sei que essa virtude repressiva (Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads)
não afasta as pessoas do pecado, (People some ten times less in fact to mind it)
Só as deixa mais dúplices, fingidas. (And care but for discoveries an not deeds.)
A lei dos mais zelosos advogados (Anda as for chastity, you'll never bind it)
Não torna a castidade mais estrita (By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads,)
E em vez de prevenir, agrava o erro, (But aggravate the crime you have not prevented,)
Pois leva o penitente ao desespero. (By rendering desperate those who had else repented.)

T is the perception of the beautiful,
A fine extension of the faculties,
Platonic, universal, wonderful,
Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies,
Without which life would be extremely dull;
In short, it is the use of our own eyes,
With one or two small senses added, just
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust.

Oh, Time! Why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.