And all may do what has by man been done.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.
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.
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
Be wise today; 'tis madness to defer. Next day the fatal precedent will plead; thus on, til wisdom is pushed our of life.