Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.

An undevout astronomer is mad.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.

O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

Live now; be damn'd hereafter.