Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.

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.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.