Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom; but he who reflects not, never reaps; has no harvest from it, but carries the burden of age without the wages of experience; nor knows himself old, but from his infirmities, the parish register, and the contempt of mankind. And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

Nature delights in progress; in advance.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.