They talk most who have the least to say.
And hope is but a dream of those that wake.
The end must justify the means.
Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
Soft peace she brings; wherever she arrives She builds our quiet as she forms our lives; Lays the rough paths of peevish Nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven.
It takes two to quarrel, but only one to end it.
The ends must justify the means.
Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim At objects in an airy height; The little pleasure of the game Is from afar to view the flight.
For, when with beauty we can virtue join, We paint the semblance of a form divine.
That if weak women went astray, Their stars were more in fault than they.
Hopes are but the dreams of those that wake.
Till their own dreams at length decive 'em, And oft repeating, they believe 'em.
For hope is but a dream for those that wake.
Hope is but the dream of those who wake.
For hope is but the dream of those that wake.