Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.

Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.

To many a youth and many a maid, dancing in the chequer'd shade.

Back to thy punishment, False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings.

A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Still paying, still to owe. Eternal woe!

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.