In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees
Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
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.