I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either.
What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
In heaven I yearn for knowledge, account all else inanity; On earth I confess an itch for the praise of fools - that's vanity
Praise is deeper than the lips
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