We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Affliction is a good man's shining time.