Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or great.

Wilt thou seal up the avenues of ill? Pay every debt as if God wrote the bill.

For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.

He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty, than live for bread.

If character is destiny, the good are damned.

Chorus: O suitably attired in leather boots Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom Whence by what way how purposed art thou come To this well-nightingaled…

For rarely man escapes his destiny.