Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.