They only babble who practise not reflection

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.

Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.