The man that blushes is not quite a brute.

We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

Man maketh a death which Nature never made.

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.

Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.