Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
Think not I am what I appear.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.