Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Man maketh a death which Nature never made.