One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.
Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.