Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.
The purpose firm is equal to the deed
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.