Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

Him Of The Western Dome, Whose Weighty Sense Flows In Fit Words And Heavenly Eloquence.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

As One That Neither Seeks, Nor Shuns His Foe.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.

Time And Death Shall Depart And Say In Flying Love Has Found Out A Way To Live, By Dying.