For What Is Glory But The Blaze

Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of My Mind.

Lifted Up So High I Disdained Subjection, And Thought One Step Higher Would Set Me Highest.

In Vain Doth Valour Bleed, While Avarice And Rapine Share The Land.

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

Time Is The Subtle Thief Of Youth.