Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.