Time glides with undiscover'd haste; The future but a length behind the past.
…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth.
Politicians neither love nor hate.
If thou dost still retain the same ill habits, the same follies, too, still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.