The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.