The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.
They build too low who build beneath the skies.
None think the great unhappy, but the great.