Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
And all may do what has by man been done.
It is great and manly to disdain disguise; it shows our spirit and proves our strength.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.