Why, what vain prattle: but my heart is sore
With thinking on the emptiness of things,
And these Athenians, treacherous to the core,
Who hung on Pericles with flatterings.
I would indeed I were a little child,
Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands
In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild,
And countless looms throb under busy hands.
The busy hand must calm the busy thought,
And labor cool the passions of the hour;