Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.
God never made his work for man to mend.
Swift was the race, but short the time to run.
Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.