I Was So Full Of Sleep At

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

There, Pride, Avarice, And Envy Are The Tongues Men Know And Heed, A Babel Of Depsair

Curb Your Talent Lest It Speed Where Virtue Does Not Guide.

We Are But A Day In This World, And In That Day The Fashion Is Changed A Thousand Times: All Seek Liberty, Yet All Deprive Themselves Of It.

A Backward Glance Can Often Lift The Heart.