In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.

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.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

The man that makes a character, makes foes.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.