Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

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The Forsyte Saga

Bart: Election next month. Your Labour friends can start lying Michael.
Michael: Do you think they'll get in?
Bart: Not this time, Bonar Law's got it all tied up. Wouldn't be a bad thing if they did: taste of office might help them grow up .... Suppose they did get in? What could they do? Cure unemployment?
Michael: They might, Bart.
Bart: I doubt it, and what else? Would they abolish the cinema? teach English women to cook? make us grow our own food? will they hang all dabblers in poison gas? destroy all bombing aeroplanes and submarines?
Michael: They could try.
Bart: And what about the possesive principle that you disapprove of? Would they abolish that? No, not on your life m'boy. No! All party politics are top dressing. We're ruled by inventors and by human nature.
Michael: Oh-hoo you have got it bad guv'ner.
Bart: But seriously, do you find reality in politics now?
Michael: Oh-hoo, do you find reality in anything now?
Bart: Income Tax, perhaps.
Michael: Such simple faith, it touches me.
Bart: Everything fine and splendid is off: no big schemes; no great principles; no far-sighted views; no great religion; no great art. Just a lot of little men in little hats.

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