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And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.
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But search the land of living men, Wher wilst thou find their like again.
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O many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken
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Oh, what tangled webs we weave, When we first practice to deceive.
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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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