We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.