As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.
Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.