The Common Damn'd Shun Their Society.

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.

Action, So To Speak, Is The Genius Of Nature.

Our Time Is Fixed, And All Our Days Are Number'd; How Long, How Short, We Know Not:—this We Know, Duty Requires We Calmly Wait The Summons, Nor Dare To Stir Till Heaven Shall Give Permission.

Its Visits, Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

Beauty! Thou Pretty Plaything! Dear Deceit, That Steals So Softly O'er The Stripling's Heart, And Gives It A New Pulse Unknown Before!