But if there be an hereafter,And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'dAnd suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,Then must it be an awful thing to die;More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.
Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance
When it draws near to witching time of night.
Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature.
How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt.
The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud.