Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Life is the desert, life the solitude, death joins us to the great majority.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
The person of wisdom is the person of years.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?