The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
A God all mercy is a God unjust.