Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.