O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.
Reason is also choice.
To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering.
Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
Live while ye may, Yet happy pair.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.