Children of the future age Reading this indignant page Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime
None but blockheads copy each other.
I see through my eyes, not with them.
Expect poison from the standing water.
The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.
Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!