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 | To each his suff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan,
The tender for another's pain;
Th'unfeeling for his own. | |
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| Words are hard | |
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| Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies. | |
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| This better have a point | |
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| Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise. | |
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| You are talking about me, aren't you | |
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