From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

Truth takes no account of centuries.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.