But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.

As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!