Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure, There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. - Lord Byron

It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.

(The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes
Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
’Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that’s his.