Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.
O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
And friend received with thumps upon the back.
We are not all great because we are inspired, but we feel great because we are.