pull down to refresh
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,His waxen wings did mount above his reach,And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.Christoper Marlowe, The Tragical History
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.Edmund Spenser
Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.
Christoper Marlowe, The Tragical History