Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
A death-bed's a detector of the heart.
Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.