'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
All men think that all men are mortal but themselves.
Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.