The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.