What is the use of all your nature to me⁠—all your parks and trees, your sunsets and sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces⁠—when all this wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts me⁠—only me⁠—one too many! What is the good of all this beauty and glory to me, when every second, every moment, I cannot but be aware that this little fly which buzzes around my head in the sun’s rays⁠—even this little fly is a sharer and participator in all the glory of the universe, and knows its place and is happy in it;⁠—while I⁠—only I, am an outcast, and have been blind to the fact hitherto, thanks to my simplicity! Oh! I know well how the prince and others would like me, instead of indulging in all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to the glory and triumph of morality, that well-known verse of Gilbert’s: