Why will we struggle to attain, and strive, When all we gain is but an empty dream?-- Better, unto my thinking, doth it seem To end it all and let who will survive; To find at last all beauty is but dust; That love and sorrow are the very same; That joy is only suffering's sweeter name; And sense is but the synonym of lust. Far better, yea, to me it seems to die; To set glad lips against the lips of Death-- The only thing God gives that comforteth, The only thing we do not find a lie.