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Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.
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One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honor or observation.
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Death -- the last sleep? No, it is the final awakening.
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