A man I knew who lived upon a smile, And well it fed him; he look'd plump and fair, While rankest venom foam'd through every vein.

We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

The man of wisdom is the man of years.