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.

How shocking must thy summons be, O death, to him that is at ease in his possessions! who, counting on long years of pleasure here, is quite unfurnished for the world to come.

The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame, Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

The common damn'd shun their society.