Call no man happy till he is dead.
Necessity is stronger far than art.
The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.
O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray, To come to me: of cureless ills thou art The one physician. Pain lays not its touch Upon a corpse.
I gave them hope, and so turned away their eyes from death
In the lack of judgment great harm arises, but one vote cast can set right a house.