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.

Tomorrow is a satire on today, And shows its weakness.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

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

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?