Poetry Cannot Be Translation

There Are Minds So Impatient Of Inferiority That Their Gratitude Is A Species Of Revenge, And They Return Benefits, Not Because Recompense Is A Pleasure, But Because Obligation Is A Pain.

He That Embarks On The Voyage Of Life Will Always Wish To Advance Rather By The Impulse Of The Wind Than The Strokes Of The Oar; And Many Fold In Their Passage; While They Lie Waiting For The Gale.

Time Quickly Puts An End To Artificial And Accidental Fame

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

So Different Are The Colors Of Life, As We Look Forward To The Future, Or Backward To The Past; And So Different The Opinions And Sentiments Which This Contrariety Of Appearance Naturally Produces, That The Conversation Of The Old And Young Ends Generally With Contempt Or Pity On Either Side.