These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.
As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
Earth has not anything to show more fair.
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.