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.
Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.
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.
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
A tardy vengeance shares the tyrant's guilt.