A dedication is a wooden leg.
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
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.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.