Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
Pity swells the tide of love.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.
Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!