Bets At First Were Fool-traps, Where The

Many Things Impossible To Thought Have Been By Need To Full Perfection Brought.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

With How Much Ease Believe We What We Wish!

You See Through Love, And That Deludes Your Sight, As What Is Straight Seems Crooked Through The Water.