Thou'rt after all - just what thou art. Put on thy head a wig with countless
locks, And to a cubit's height upraise thy socks, Still thou remainest ever,
I fell it, I have heap'd upon my brain The gather'd treasure of man's thought in
vain; And when at length from studious toil I rest, No power, new - born,
springs up within my breast; A hair's breadth is not added to my height, I am
Good sir, these things you view indeed, Just as by other men they're view'd;
We must more cleverly proceed, Before life's joys our grasp elude. The devil!
thou hast hands and feet, And head and heart are also thine; What I enjoy