Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
The mad is either insane or he is composing verses.
The Muse gave the Greeks genius and the art of the well-turned phrase.
In the word of no master am I bound to believe.
The man is either crazy or he is a poet.
Despise not sweet inviting love-making nor the merry dance.