Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.