Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Old men love novelties; the last arriv'd Still pleases best; the youngest steals their smiles.

Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

We are not all great because we are inspired, but we feel great because we are.