O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.
A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.