But she is vanish'd to her shady home Under the deep, inscrutable; and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream's, like a meteor, to the troubled air.

Those curious locks so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair a soul doth bind.

For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!