My chief, let Fate cry on or back, 'Tis ours to follow, nothing slack: Whate'er betide, he only cures The stroke of Fortune who endures. - John Conington

No longer dream that human prayer
The will of Fate can overbear.

Bear up, and live for happier days.

From me you fly! Ah! let me crave,
By these poor tears, that hand you gave—
Since, parting with my woman's pride,
My madness leaves me nought beside—
By that our wedlock, by the rite
Which, but begun, could yet unite,
If e'er my kindness held you bound,
If e'er in my joy you found,
Look on this falling house, and still,
If prayer can touch you, change your will.