Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.
As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.