Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
It calls Devotion! genuine growth of night! Devotion! Daughter of Astronomy! An undevout astronomer is mad!
They build too low who build beneath the skies.
Who knows if Shakespeare might not have thought less if he had read more?