by William Shakespeare

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

    I summon up remembrance of things past，

    I sigh the lack of many a 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 cancelled woe，

    And moan the 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.