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 We know not what she may account Of her creations paramount; Or rather say, her equal eye Doth all impartially descry, Nothing to her is great or small, Alike her bosom fosters all, Despises naught, loves none too well Of all that in her kingdom dwell, But gives to all whate'er they need Favouring no more the flower than weed.

What but a dream is all that's past? The Future's but a dream forecast; If aught that's not a dream can be 'Tis what we in the present see, But that dissolves before our eyes Ere we its import realise; Strive as we may to hold it fast. Naught that we see or feel may last; As in a swiftly-moving train We motionless seem to remain, While the receding landscape flies So fast it mocks our straining eyes— So are we hurried on our way, No time to think, no power to stay; With swifter and yet swifter pace, Onward, we know not where, we race, Until, amazed and out of breath, We reach the final station—Death.

So in a tangled maze of errors. Of sins, perplexities and terrors,