Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.