Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
Faultless to a fault.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.