The Wisest Are The Most

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

O Human Race, Born To Fly Upward, Wherefore At A Little Wind Dost Thou So Fall?

Thou Shall Know By Experience How Salt The Savor Is Of Others' Bread, And How Sad A Path It Is To Climb And Descend Another's Stairs.

Doubting Charms Me Not Less Than Knowledge.

How Come I Never Meet Any Nice Girls?