Mine is the night, with all her stars.
The purpose firm is equal to the deed
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Wishing of all employments is the worst
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.