Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?
Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
A God all mercy is a God unjust.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
A man of pleasure is a man of pains.
Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.