He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
A dedication is a wooden leg.
We push time from us, and we wish him back; * * * * * * Life we think long and short; death seek and shun.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.