Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.