We are all born originals - why is it so many of us die copies?

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

The purpose firm is equal to the deed

In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

Whose yesterdays look backwards with a smile.

He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.