Polite diseases make some idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.
Time elaborately thrown away.
Affliction is a good man's shining time.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.