Accursed Be The City Where The Laws

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

Ye Stars! Which Are The Poetry Of Heaven!

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

Tis Pleasing To Be School'd In A Strange Tongue By Female Lips And Eyes--that Is, I Mean, When Both The Teacher And The Taught Are Young, As Was The Case, At Least, Where I Have Been; They Smile So When One's Right; And When One's Wrong They Smile Still More.

There Is No Passion, More Spectral Or Fantastical Than Hate, Not Even Its Opposite, Love, So Peoples Air, With Phantoms, As This Madness Of The Heart.