If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
We frolic while 'tis May.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.