Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.