Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
My native land, good night!
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.
And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.