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To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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Oh, what tangled webs we weave, When we first practice to deceive.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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O many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken
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Then, wearied by the uncertainty and difficulties with which each scheme appeared to be attended, he bent up his mind to the strong effort of shaking off his love, like dew-drops from the lion's mane, and resuming those studies and that career of life which his unrequited affection had so long and so fruitlessly interrupted. In this last resolution he endeavoured to fortify himself by every argument which pride, as well as reason, could suggest.
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