Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
The course of Nature is the art of God
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.