Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To

In This Commonplace World Every One Is Said To Be Romantic Who Either Admires A Fine Thing Or Does One.

Then Marble, Soften'd Into Life, Grew Warm.

And Little Eagles Wave Their Wings In Gold.

When To Mischief Mortals Bend Their Will, How Soon They Find It Instruments Of Ill.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.