Pity swells the tide of love.
A land of levity is a land of guilt.
Man wants little, nor that little long.
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.