This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.

Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.

A prince indebted is a fortune made.