To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?
What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!