Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.