It Is A Madness To Make Fortune

He Trudged Along Unknowing What He Sought, And Whistled As He Went, For Want Of Thought.

Having Mourned Your Sin, For Outward Eden Lost, Find Paradise Within.

He With A Graceful Pride, While His Rider Every Hand Survey'd, Sprung Loose, And Flew Into An Escapade; Not Moving Forward, Yet With Every Bound Pressing, And Seeming Still To Quit His Ground.

Damn'd Neuters, In Their Middle Way Of Steering, Are Neither Fish, Nor Flesh, Nor Good Red Herring.

Fortune Confounds The Wise, And When They Least Expect It Turns The Dice.