Virtue alone has majesty in death.
The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!