Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.
Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Too low they build who build below the skies.
What most we wish, with ease we fancy near.
Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.