If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.