Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.