Would but some wing'ed Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder… — Omar Khayyám

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire.

A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:

The three make heaven for me; it may be thine

Is some sour place of singing cold and bare —

But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid

Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd —

Sue for a Debt he never did contract,

And cannot answer — Oh, the sorry trade!