by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      HEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought
      I summon up remembrance of things past,
      I sigh the lack of many a thought I sought,
      And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
      Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
      For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
      And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
      And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
      Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
      And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
      The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
      Which I new pay as if not paid before.
      But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
      All losses are restored and sorrows end.