Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.
Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
None think the great unhappy, but the great.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.