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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - The Death Of The Fly
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WITH eagerness he drinks the treach`rous potion,

Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled;
Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion

He finds has from his tender members fled;
No longer has he strength to plume his wing,
No longer strength to raise his head, poor thing!
E`en in enjoyment`s hour his life he loses,
His little foot to bear his weight refuses;
So on he sips, and ere his draught is o`er,
Death veils his thousand eyes for evermore.
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