The Soul Of Sweet Delight, Can Never

He Loves To Sit And Hear Me Sing, Then, Laughing, Sports And Plays With Me; Then Stretches Out My Golden Wing, And Mocks My Loss Of Liberty.

But To Go To School In A Summer Morn, O! It Drives All Joy Away; Under A Cruel Eye Outworn, The Little Ones Spend The Day In Sighing And Dismay.

Without Unceasing Practice Nothing Can Be Done. Practice Is Art. If You Leave Off You Are Lost.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, Near Where The Charter'd Thames Does Flow, And Mark In Every Face I Meet Marks Of Weakness, Marks Of Woe. In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear. How The Chimney-sweeper's Cry Every Black'ning Church Appalls; And The Hapless Soldier's Sigh Runs In Blood Down Palace Walls. But Most Thro' Midnight Streets I Hear How The Youthful Harlot's Curse Blasts The New Born Infant's Tear, And Blights With Plagues The Marriage Hearse.

What Is Now Proved Was Once Only Imagined.