Procrastination is the thief of time: Year after year it steals, till all are fled.
But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
Man maketh a death which Nature never made.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Too low they build who build below the skies.