An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

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.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Man maketh a death which Nature never made.

Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!