I see through my eyes, not with them.

Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.

To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.

Dip him in the river who loves water.

All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.

Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

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!