Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.