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Look back, and smile on perils past.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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Sordid selfishness doth contract and narrow our benevolence, and cause us, like serpents, to infold ourselves within ourselves, and to turn out our stings to the entire world besides.
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Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
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Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!
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