Song From Count Filippo
WHO is lord of lordly fate,--
Lady of her lot's estate?
He who rules himself is he,
She who tempts not fate is she.
Who in peril stands of pain?
Who is sure to suffer stain?
He who climbs a thorny tree,
Gathers juicy berries she.
Childhood Alone Is Glad
Childhood alone is glad. With it time flees
In constant mimes and bright festivities.
It, like the ever-restless butterfly,
Or seeks or settles on some flower of joy.
Youth chases pleasure, but oft starteth pain;
And love, youth's birthright, oft is love in vain;
While manhood follows wealth, or woos ambition,
That are but courted cares; and, with transition
Insensible, he enters upon age;
Thence gilding like a spectre from life's stage,
E'en through the door of dotage. So he passes
To second childhood; but, as quickening gases,
Being fled, leave zestless a once cheering draught,
We grow not merry though the dotard laughed.