I silent sit and let them speak, As men of strength Allow the impotent and weak To rail at length. p. 11If they should tell me Love is blind, And so doth miss The faults which they are quick to find, I’d answer this: p. 11 Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes Are purged and clear Through gazing on the perfect skies Of thine, my dear. p. 12MUSIC FOR THE DYING p. 12 from the french of sully prudhomme from the french of sully prudhomme Ye who will help me in my dying pain, Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain, And I shall die at peace. Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief From all below by which we are opprest; I pray you, speak no word unto my grief, But lull it into rest. Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught That may some falsehood from the ear conceal, Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought, Which I need only feel: p. 13A melody in whose delicious streams The soul may sink, and pass without a breath From fevered fancies into quiet dreams, From dreaming into death. p. 13 p. 14FAREWELL TO A SINGER p. 14 on her marriage on her marriage As those who hear a sweet bird sing, And love each song it sings the best, Grieve when they see it taking wing And flying to another nest: We, who have heard your voice so oft, And loved it more than we can tell, Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft, Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell. It is not kind to leave us thus; Yet we forgive you and combine, Although you now bring grief to us, To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.