Why are you standing here all alone in front of the

Gates and moaning to yourself over your misfortune?

Why are you standing here, alone, in front of the gates?

When the wars are done

The poet speaks with equal persuasiveness

On the wastes and misery that follow great conflicts

And pleads for tranquil times

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair

Which like two spirits do suggest me still

The better angel is a man right fair

The worser spirit a woman coloured ill

How many make the hour full complete;

How many hours bring about the day;

How many days will finish up the year;

How many years a mortal man may live

When this is known, then to divide the times:

So many hours must I contemplate;

So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean:

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years

Pass'd over to the end they were created

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!