If there's delight in love, 'Tis when I see that heart, which others bleed for, bleed for me. - William Congreve

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,

Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure; Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night
The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King;
He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd
Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.
Why am not I at Peace?