Cowards are cruel, but the brave love mercy and delight to save.
How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!
So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.
There is no dependence that can be sure but a dependence upon one's self.
Were I laid on Greenland's Coast, And in my Arms embrac'd my Lass; Warm amidst eternal Frost, Too soon the Half Year's Night would pass.
Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain; It only serves to prove the living vain.