Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.
Final Ruin fiercely drives Her ploughshare o'er creation.
This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
A God all mercy is a God unjust.