Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
The best way to excape his ire Is, not to seem too happy.
Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
Tis Man's to explore up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason.