Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.