I Am A Feather For Each Wind

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp Of Truth.

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

Present Mirth Hath Present Laughter. What's To Come Is Still Unsure.

And Why Not Death Rather Than Living Torment? To Die Is To Be Banish'd From Myself; And Silvia Is Myself: Banish'd From Her Is Self From Self: A Deadly Banishment!