Mine is the night, with all her stars.
Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.