by William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrace of things past,
I sight the lack of manya thing 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-cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.

Then can I grieve at grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moam,
Whitch 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.