Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.
A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?
Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.