And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But that, will make us weep the more. - Lord Byron

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark
Bay deep- mouth’d welcome as we draw near home;
’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,
Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Que vergonha! Não quero ir para o Inferno! (I'm very sorry, very much ashmed,)
Juro regenerar-me antes do inverno. (And mean next winter to be quite reclaimed)