Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.

Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

Curiosity kills itself; and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.

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.

When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years.