What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.

Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

The old order changes yielding place to new.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.