It is only by instigation of the wrongs of men that what are called the Rights of Man become turbulent and dangerous.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.

But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet. Lessen like sound of friends departing feet; And death is beautiful as feet of friend. Coming with welcome at our journey's end.

The one thing finished in this hasty world.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.

The realm of death seems an enemy's country to most men, on whose shores they are loathly driven by stress of weather; to the wise man it is the desired port where he moors his bark gladly, as in some quiet haven of the Fortunate Isles; it is the golden west into which his sun sinks, and, sinking, casts back a glory upon the leaden cloud-tack which had darkly besieged his day.