Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.

Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

And all may do what has by man been done.

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