At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
Time destroyed Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done