Tis an old lesson; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Let none think to fly the danger for soon or late love is his own avenger.

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?