Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.

'T is impious in a good man to be sad.

Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving; and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.

All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.