Take God from nature, nothing great is left.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.
Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.