How thy mad feet approach a fountain cool,
And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful care
The sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool,
For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate,
Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine,
And as he died of love, so thou of hate
Wilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine.
The following is trite, yet true. The ambitious might, but will not profit thereby. What is so obvious is forgotten.
All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave,
The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state,