Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
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.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.