As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.