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But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little and who talk too much.
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We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.
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Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
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