Poetry

And I who am changed through her, as the winged magician wishes, do not see or ask anything but virtue and beauty, whence I could perhaps discern your whole soul.

Without doubt you can call him John Testicle, who sets himself to criticizing someone else who could be his master for a hundred years.

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs — Every child may joy to hear.

Must toiling Man for ever meet disgrace, and eat his hard earn’d bread with heated face, and all his acts in dull Oblivion lay

I’d like to find and lose the philosopher’s stone. Make love and never lose control. Remove a great number of living beings with impunity. Afterward resuscitate a very small number of the dead.