An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

He Capers, He Dances, He Has Eyes Of Youth, He Writes Verses, He Speaks Holiday, He Smells April And May.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.

There's Neither Honesty, Manhood, Nor Good Fellowship In Thee.

For Now They Kill Me With A Living Death.