«How blessed's the good-natured poet, / With little bile and much emotion: / All lovers of the gentle arts / Send him sincerest greetings; The admiration of the crowd / Sounds in his ear like rippling waves; / He is a stranger to self-doubt- / That torture of creative souls; Lover of co...»
«Here's a vestibule. On holidays / Overcome by slavish fear, / The whole population, in a state of awe, / Rushes to the sacred doors. / Having left their names and ranks. / All these visitors return then to their homes / They are all so deeply satisfied / You might think this was their...»
«You're unhappy, sick at heart: / Oh, I know it-here such sickness isn't rare. / Nature can but mirror / The surrounding poverty. All is ever drear and dismal, / Pastures, fields, and meadows, / Wet and drowsy jackdaws / Resting on the peaked haystacks; Here's a drunken peasant driving ...»
«I shall soon fall prey to rot. / Though it's hard to die, it's good to die; / I shall ask for no one's pity, / And there's no one who would pity me. With my lyre I won no glory / For my noble family name; / And I die as distant from my people / As the day that I began to live. Ties of ...»