The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of

Alas! How Deeply Painful Is All Payment!

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

Though I Love My Country, I Do Not Love My Countrymen.