To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.

But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.