Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

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

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

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

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.