Mine is the night, with all her stars.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.